
PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS 



^ 




FOR THE OLD FLAG 



PS 3539 
.U13 
F65 
Copy 1 



BY 



ARTHUR LEWIS TUBBS 




THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
PHILADELPHIA 



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iE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



I 



For the Old Flag 

A Patriotic Play in Three Acts 



By 
ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES 

Author of '*Farm Folks;' ''Home Ties,'' ''The Village 
Lawyer;' "The Finger of Scorn;' etc. 




PHILADELPHIA 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

I 9 I 8 



7^5 3 S2 f 



Copyright 191 8 by The Penn Publishing Company 



©CLD 50530 
For the Old Flag 

OCT -9 (918 



^ 



For the Old Flag 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Philip Randall - - - - of the U. S. Army 

Tom Randall his brother 

Rodney Hunt from New York 

Hezekiah Wilkins - - - -an ''Old Vet'' 

Oliver Moon a young patriot 

Lucy Garrett tried and true 

Jessie Randall - - - sister of Philip and Tom 

Mrs. Randall their mother 

Sophia Ash .... who is '' 7?iediumistic'* 
Ivy the *' help " 

Time of Playing. — About two hours and a half. 

The action of the play takes place in a small village in 
New York State, near which is located a United States Army 
training camp. The first act occurs on an afternoon in 
August, 191 7; the second act, about the same time the 
next day, and the third act in the evening, the following 
February. 



THE STORY OF THE PLAY 

Philip Randall, a United States soldier, is in love with 
Lucy Garrett. She refuses him, her love and faith 
having been pledged to his brother, Tom Randall, 
who is in prison, accused of a theft Lucy believes 
he did not commit. Tom returns, and confronts 
Philip. " You took that money." Philip begs 
mercy for the sake of their mother and " for the 
old flag," and Tom agrees to keep silent for a time. 
Philip sails for France, and when wounded makes 
a confession that clears his brother's name. Then 
Tom in turn, with Lucy's promise to wait for him, 
enlists under the old flag. 



NOTICE TO PROFESSIONALS 

This play is published for the free use of strictly 
amateur companies only. Professional actors or 
organizations wishing to produce it, in any form 
or under any title, are forbidden to do so without 
the consent of the author, who may be addressed 
in care of the publishers. 



COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 

Philip Randall. About twenty-five years of age. A 
sturdy young country fellow, of good appearance, 
considerable polish and attractive manner. He 
should by no means be indicated as a coward, but 
^ rather as one " not wholly convinced." A vein of 
possible villainy should be hinted, not offensively 
depicted. He wears the khaki uniform of a pri- 
vate in the U. S. Army. 



COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 



Tom Randall. About three years younger than 
PhiHp. Upon his first appearance he is pale, 
emaciated, of dejected and somewhat desperate 
mien. Cheap suit, considerably the worse for 
wear. Second act, same suit, but much more tidy 
in appearance, also improved in spirits and man- 
ner. Third act, well dressed, in plain dark suit. 
He has fully recovered his health and looks robust 
and athletic. 

Rodney Hunt. Young " city fellow " ; not dudish, 
but well dressed in summer flannel or outing suit, 
with straw hat; same for first two acts. Third 
act, uniform, same as worn by Philip in first act, 
with heavy overcoat, etc. 

Hezekiah Wilkin s. Little, wizened old man, about 
seventy. Thin, wrinkled face, with sparse gray 
hair and beard. May have slight limp. First act, 
baggy old trousers, with colored shirt, wide- 
brimmed straw hat, etc. Wears G. A. R. badge. 
Last act, neat but cheap winter suit ; overcoat, cap, 
tippet, etc. Still wears badge. 

Oliver Moon. Boy of fifteen or sixteen. Regular 
mischievous " kid," full of pranks. First act, 
short trousers, waist, cap or straw hat. Last act, 
heavier suit. 

Lucy Garrett. Pretty, winsome girl of eighteen or 
thereabouts, of cultured manners. First act, light, 
dainty summer costume, with hat. Second act, 
same or similar. Third act, becoming winter 
dress, with furs, etc. 

Jessie Randall. About same age as Lucy. Equally 
attractive, though not so richly dressed. First act, 
neat summer dress, with hat. Second act, similar 
attire. Third act, neat winter dress. 

Mrs. Randall. Motherly woman of about fifty-five 
or sixty; white hair; very gentle and loveable. 
First act, neat dress, with bonnet and light shawl 
or wrap. Second act, house dress of calico or 
some such material. Third act, dark house dress. 

Sophia Ash. A quick, " fussy " and self-important 
" old maid," distinctly a comedy part, but by no 

5 



propebtiJes 

means a caricature. She is about forty-five or 
fifty years old. In first two acts she is attired in 
somewhat fancy summer dresses, with ribbons, a 
gay hat, parasol, fan, etc. Third act, equally 
"dressy," but appropriate to season, with shawl, 
etc. 
Ivy. Typical country "help," fourteen or fifteen years 
of age. First two acts, short dress, with large 
gingham apron; not too neat, but should not be 
noticeably untidy. Hair combed straight back, 
with braids, or hanging in ringlets. Third act, 
neater attire, with ribbon on hair. 



PROPERTIES 



For Mrs. Randall: Fan; partly knitted sweater, 
needles, wool, etc. 

For Ivy : Pan of apples ; paring knife ; glass of water ; 
several cucumbers or substitutes ; tray with dishes, 
covered with napkin; broom; checker-board and 
checkers. 

For Lucy: Knitting-bag and two partly knitted 
sweaters (these should be alike except that one is 
a little more advanced than the other) ; hand-bag. 

For Jessie: Partly knitted sock, needles, etc. 

For Sophia: Knitting bag, partly knitted sock, 
needles, etc. ; newspaper in a wrapper. 

For Oliver: Basket with packages, supposed to be 
groceries. 

For Hezekiah: Large American flag on a pole; 
G. A. R. badge. 

For Rodney: Letter in an envelope, addressed, but 
not stamped. 

Other Properties: A phonograph to be heard off 
stage, with military march record. A cabinet 
organ, to be heard off stage playing "Keep the 
Home Fires Burning," or some sympathetic war 
music. Later, heard playing " America." Salt, to 
represent snow. 



SCENE PLOT 

£y(TE:ntoR nPiop 
nooR 




Scene. — Sitting-room of the Randall home. Door in 
flat, c, and window in flat l. c. (window may be 
omitted). Back drop shows village scene, fields, 
or yard. Doors r. and l. also. Up R. small table 
or stand, and two chairs or stools. Down r., two 
large chairs. Down l., table with table spread, 
papers, books. One chair r. and two l. of table. 
Bookcase or some other article of furniture up l. 
Other furnishings to make a plain but comfort- 
able room. 



For the Old Flag 



ACT I 

SCENE.—Sitiing-room of the Randall homestead, 
plainly but neatly furnished. There is a door up 
c. in flat and window up l. in flat, also doors R. 
and l. ; table, with spread, papers, a book or two, 
etc., L. c. ; several chairs. It is an afternoon in 
August and the window and door up c. are open, 
showing yard, the fields or village street in back- 
ground. At rise, a band is heard off^ R., playing a 
military march. After a pause, during which the 
band is supposed to pass in the distance, the music 
gradually dying away, Oliver Moon enters, march 
step, door c. to l., carrying basket containing sev- 
eral packages; down c, just as Ivy enters r. She 
carries pan containing apples. He sets down 
basket, stands " at attention " c. Ivy crosses down 
L., turns and sees Oliver. 

Ivy. Oh! that you, Oliver? 'Bout time you brung 

them groceries. 
Oliver (standing erect, arms at side; salutes). Here! 
Ivy. Oh, come on, you ain't no soldier. Can't fool me. 

(Sits, down l., and commences to pare and cut up 
apples. ) 

Oliver (assuming natural manner). Oh, that you, 

Ivy? 
IVY. Who's it look like— Mis' President Wilson 'r 

anybuddy ? Brung our things, did y' ? 
Oliver. Yep. Where'll I put 'em? 

9 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Ivy. Well, niebbe you'd better take 'em in and put *em 
on the pi-anner. That's gen' rally where we keep 
our groceries. 

Oliver. Pi-anner ? You ain't got none. 

Ivy. Well, then s'pose you go 'n' put 'em on the 
kitchen table. I'd take 'em, only I got t' peel these 
apples. Phil's got leave 'n' is comin' home t' 
supper 'n' I got t' make a lot o' apple sauce. 

Oliver. Give me a piece? (Crosses l.) 

Ivy. How c'n I give you a piece o' apple sauce, you 
silly ? 'Sides, it ain't made yet. 

Oliver. Aw, I mean a piece o' apple. 

(About to help himself from pan.) 

Ivy. Go 'way; th' ain't none t' spare — 'cept a little 
piece, mebbe. Here! 

(Hands him small piece of apple.) 

Oliver. Thanks. Regular Eve, ain't y' ? 

(Sits near her, l.) 

Ivy. Eve who? 

Oliver. 'N' Adam. Don't you go t' Sunday-school ? 

Ivy. Oh, ain't you knowin'? Sure I do. 'N' you'd 

better go 'n' put them groceries in the kitchen and 

get back t' that store, 'r Mr. Bates'll give you more 

'n apples. 
Oliver. Huh! no danger. He never gives a feller 

nothin'. Y' see the soldiers ? 
Ivy. No. Heard the band, but Mis' Randall 'n' Jessie 

wanted t' go V see 'em 'cause Phil was with 'em, 

so I had t' stay home and watch the house. She's 

all broke up over his 'nlistin'. 

(He keeps helping himself to pieces of apple, unnoticed 
by her; eats them almost as fast as she pares 
them. ) 

Oliver. I s'pose she is. Jest like a mother. But it's 
the best thing ever happened t' Phil Randall. 
Mebbe it'll make a man of him. 

10 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



Ivy. You hadn't better let her hear you say that. 

She thinks he's the hull thing, almost, V of course 

he's all she's got, sense {Notices him eating 

apples, jumps up, slapping him.) Here, you! 

Ain't you got th' cheek? Well, of all things, if 

you haven't et all I've peeled ! 

Oliver. The woman tempted me and I did eat 

Ivy. Well, I should say you did ! Now you take them 

things in the kitchen, 'n' then you clear out o' here. 

You're the limit. 
Oliver {goi7tg r., with basket). Oh, all right! But 

mebbe you'll be sorry you spoke t' me like that 

some day — when I'm over 'n France, 'n' you hear 

I'm shot 'r some thin'. 
Ivy. You ! Huh, I guess they ain't much danger. A 

pretty soldier you'd make 

Oliver. Who wants t' be a "pretty" soldier? But 

you jest bet I'd 'nlist t'day if they'd take me. 

Ain't it a shame I ain't old enough ? You jest bet 

I'd 'nlist if I was. 
Ivy. I guess you wouldn't be s' anxious 'f you was. 

It's easy enough to talk, but I guess when it come 

to the pinch You goin' t' take them things 

in there ? 
Oliver. Sure— sure! Y' see. Ivy dear, you're such 

a clingin' little vine, I can't tear m'self away from 

y — . 

Ivy. You sfit out 



(Rims at him, giving him a cuff; he exits r., with 
basket. She looks at pan, disgusted; goes iip, 
looks of door c. to r., then, carrying pan, comes 
down R., as she sees Mrs. Randall and Jessie, 
who enter from. r. They wear hats; Mrs. R. has 
a plain fan. They come down l.) 

Mrs. Randall {sitting l., fanning self). I'm so tired. 

It's veiy warm. 
Jessie {by her). Yes, Mother, and I'm afraid the 

walk was too much for you. Do you feel faint ? 
Mrs. R. Oh, no; just a little exhausted, that's all. 

I'll be all right in a minute. 
II 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



Ivy. Shall I get you a glass o' water, Mis' Randall? 

Mrs. R. Why, yes. Ivy, if you will, please. 

Ivy. Yes, ma'am. Oliver Moon's in there. He jest 
brung them things you ordered from the store 
b'forc you went to th' p'rade. They're the slowest 
things down t' that store. I'll bring the water. 

{Exit, R., with pan.) 

Jessie. It was very hard, wasn't it — seeing Phil in his 

uniform and knowing he has to leave us ? But we 

must be brave, you know. 
Mrs. R. Yes, dear, of course we must ; and I mean to 

be. But it is hard, especially when I think of — 

of 

{Covers eyes with hand or fan, weeping gently. Jessie 
puts arm about her.) 

Jessie. Don't, Mother, please don't. We mustn't 
think about him — about that — you know. It 
doesn't do any good. We must only think of Phil, 
and that he is a soldier now and is going to be a 
hero — and fight for his country — and — oh. Mother, 
didn't he look fine in his new uniform? I was so 
proud of him. Weren't you? 

Mrs. R. {recovering). Yes, yes, of course I was. 
I'm so glad he has leave and can come to supper 
and spend a whole day with us. 

'{Enter Ivy, r., with glass of water; gives it to Mrs. R., 
who drinks nearly all of it. Oliver enters R. and 
stands r. c. with empty basket.) 

Ivy. Feel better now. Mis* Randall ? 

Mrs. R. Yes, thank you. Ivy. How do you do, 

Oliver^ 
Oliver. How d' do. Mis' Randall ? 

{He and Jessie also exchange greetings. Ivy goes out 
R,, with glass.) 

Jessie. Wouldn't you like to be a soldier, Oliver? 

12 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



Oliver. You jest bet I would, Miss Randall. T*s 
only 'cause I ain't old enough 't I ain't one. 

Mks. R. Some would be glad to escape, Oliver. 

Olivf.r. Them kind ain't real Americans. They're 
slackers. I ain't built that way — no more 'n your 
Phil is, Mis' Randall. I see he's 'nlisted. 

Mrs. R. Yes. We have just been to see him in his 
uniform, for the first time. It was a very fine 
parade. Did you see it? 

(Jessie goes up to door, c.) 

Oliver. No. Couldn't git away. Well, I must be 
gitt'n' back, 'r old Bates'll dock my week's wages. 

Jessie {who is looking off to r.). Oh, look! Here 
comes Mr. Wilkins, having a parade all to himself. 
{Waves hand.) Hello, Mr. Wilkins! 

(Oliver goes up, looks off; Mrs. R. rises, goes up C. 
part way, also looks off; they stand aside, as Heze- 
KiAH Wilkins marches in, zvith good-sized Amer- 
ican flag. Jessie joins him on one side, Oliver 
on the other; they march about; Ivy looks in r., 
sees them, joins them and they parade around, all 
singing or whistling " The Girl I Left Behind Me." 
Mrs. R. stands up l., watching them, smiling, then 
applauding. Philip Randall appears in door c, 
in uniform, stands and watches them, at first un- 
noticed. They finally pause and he claps his 
hands. ) 

Philip. Hurray! Hurray! Three cheers for the 
U. S. A. I 

(They all turn and see him. He comes down l. Mrs. 
R. comes down l. to him; he kisses her, then kisses 
Jessie. Oliver, Hezekiah, Ivy at r.) 

Mrs. R. Why, Phil, dear, how did you get here so 
soon ? We didn't expect you for some time yet. 

Philip. They broke ranks soon after you left, and I 
came straight here. 

13 



FOR TEE OLD FLAG 



Jessie. My, but you look fine, Phil! Aren't you 
proud ? 

Philip. M'm— yes, I suppose I am. It's all very fine, 
and Fm patriotic and all that, but— well, somehow 
I don't feel so very enthusiastic just yet. I sup- 
pose I shall, though, in time. How about it, Mr. 
Wilkins? You ought to know. 

Hezekiaii. Me ? Guess I do. Be'n through th' mill ! 
'Thusiasm? 'M full of it. Gosh, wish I was a 
young 'un agin, y' jest bet I'd fall in line. It's me 
f 'r Old Glory, every time ! 

(Waves flag; they all smile and applaud lightly.) 

Jessie. Good for you, Mr. Wilkins. I guess you 
know v\Ahat war is, too ? 

Hezekiaii. Guess I do. Fit f'r the Union. Was at 
Antietam 'n' Bull Run. Makes me fire up all over 
agin, all this marchin' 'n' music, 'n' all. I tell y' 
what, young man (to Philip), you ought t' be 
proud t' go 'n' fight for Uncle Sam. 

Oliver. Sure he ought to. Wish I could go. 

Philip. I am. But there's another side to it, you 
know — going away, and leaving this dear little 
mother and sister, and — they have no one else 

now, and Oh, but we mustn't think of these 

things, I suppose. By the way, Mother, I asked 
Rodney Hunt to come and have supper with us. 
I thought you wouldn't mind. 

Mrs. R. Why, no, of course not, Phil, if you want 
him. But we are not very stylish, you know, and 
he — well, being from the city and living at the 
hotel and all 

Hezekiah. He's that city dude 't I've seen around 
with you s' much, ain't he? 

Philip. I suppose you have seen him with me. He 
has been my friend for some time, and he lives 
in New York. But I don't know as I would call 
him a " dude." Wearing good clothes and having 
an education and polished manners doesn't nec- 
essarily mean that a man is what vou call a 
" dude," Hezekiah. 

14 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



{He goes up L., slightly annoyed. Mrs. R. is down l. ; 
Ji^ssiE L. c. ; Hezekiah up r. ; Oliver and Ivy r.) 

Hezekiah. Didn't mean no offense, Phil, m' boy. 

But I've kind o' wondered why he ain't wearin' a 

uniform, too. Not that he'd make much of a 

soldier. He's th' kind that c'n carry a cane 'r a 

cigarette better 'n a gun, I take it. 
Mrs. R. Well, Phil, if your friend is coming, Ivy and 

I will go and see about getting a little something 

extra for supper. I guess there is time. Come, 

Ivy. 
Ivy. All right, Mis' Randall. 
Philip. Now, Mother, you needn't go and fuss. 

Rodney isn't so particular, and he'll understand. 
Mrs. R. I know, dear ; but we want to fix up a little, 

you know. I wouldn't want you to be ashamed 

of us. 

{Exit R., followed by Ivy. Jessie goes to r.) 

Jessie. I'll go and see if there's anything I can do. 
Mother's all upset, I can see that. I shouldn't 
think you would have invited Mr. Hunt here to 
supper, Phil, without telling us in advance. He's 
used to style and all, you know he is. 

Philip {going to her, r.). Pshaw! It won't hurt 
him, if he is. Besides, things are plenty good 
enough here for him. He was glad enough to 
accept, and you're glad enough to have him, you 
know you are 

Jessie {in confusion). Phil! 

Philip. Now, now, little sly puss! You know you 
think he's the grandest thing ever was. And as 
for him — well, what he didn't say nice about 
you 

Jessie. Phil! — be still! How can you? They'll 
hear 

{^Glances at Hezekiah and Oliver, who are up c, m 
door, talking together, apparently not noticing 
others, who are up r. ) 

15 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Philip. That's all right. They didn't notice. What 
do you care if they did? {Turning up c.) Going, 
Hezekiah ? 

Hezekiah. Wal, I wa'n't, jest yit. {Comes down c.) 
Reckoned I'd run in 'n' talk soldier'n' a few min- 
utes, seein' you've got y'r uniform. Thought 
mebbe I c'd give y' a little advice. Glad t'. 

Philip. That's very kind, Hezekiah, but I guess I'll 
get all the advice and instructions that are neces- 
sary, all in good time. What do you think about 
it, Oliver ? They going to get you ? 

Oliver {up c). Would, if I had my way. Won't 
take me. Ain't old 'nough. 

Philip. I guess that could be fixed. They might 
take you, one way or another. 

Oliver. Oh! think they would? {About to go.) 
Well, y' see, even so, I — I ain't sure I could go. 

Got some fambly ties, y' know, 'n' Say, it's 

gitt'n' late. Guess I'll have t' be gitt'n' back f 
the store, 'r Mr. Bates'U give it t' me. Good-bye. 
See y' later. 

{Exit Oliver through c. door to l. Jessie goes to 
door c. and looks after him. Philip comes 
down L.) 

Hezekiah. Cold feet. Was jes' blowin' about 
want'n' t' go. 

Philip {leaning on table, l.). Well, I tell you, it's no 
pleasant thing to think of, after all, Mr. Wilkins. 
I can't say I'd go, if I had my way. I don't think 
I'm a coward. I want to be patriotic and do my 
duty, and I hope I will do it when the time comes. 
But a fellow might as well be honest with himself 
and own up that he doesn't hanker after war. 
It's a beastly thing to think of. 

Hezekiah. You're right, m' boy, it is. I was there. 
It's a good while ago now, but sometimes it seems 
like it was yist'd'y. I c'n still hear the cannons 
roarin', V see the boys runnin' int' the midst of 
the fight— 'n' there I be, pitchin' in, day after day, 
i6 



FOR TBE OLD FLAG 



fightin' — sometimes fairly droppin', but still 
keepin' at it — 'cause y' can't stop, s' long 's y'r 
legs '11 hold y' up and there's a breath left t' fight 
with. Then one day I got a shot — here, in this 
leg — the bullet went in there — right here — and I 
was done f'r. {He feels of right knee.) I'm an 
old Vet. now, and hev been f'r years 'n' years, 'n' 
I'll soon lay down m' arms f'r good. But I would 
like t' live till you boys come marchin' home 'n' 
y' tell us you licked them pesky Huns. That'd 
be somethin' t' live f'r — 'n' t' die f'r, if needs be, 
m' boy— t' die f'r ! 

Philip {going and clasping his hand). Thanks, Mr. 
Wilkins. You give me courage. I'll try to be as 
good a soldier as you were — as you are ! I never 
can be — but I'll try! 

Hezekiah {patting him on shoulder). That's the way 
t' talk, m' boy — 'n' I'll go with y' — in spirit — 'n' 
keep Old Glory wavin' here till y' come marchin' 
home. 

{They are down l. c. ; Jessie in door c, looking off to 
R. Hezekiah again waves flag.) 

Philip. Oh, the flag will come flying home all right, 
Hezekiah, you can be sure of that, and when it 
does, the victory it has won will be worth all we 
have done to win it. That's the way to feel, isn't 
it? 

Hezekiah. You bet it is. No man has ever died in 
vain if he's give his life f'r Old Glory. 

Jessie {turning to them). That's a fine sentiment, Mr. 
Wilkins. It's easier to say than it is to feel, how- 
ever. 

Hezekiah. Mebbe 'tis; mebbe 'tis. But we got t' 
feel it too, you know. 

Jessie {coming part way down c). Oh, yes, I know, 
I know. But we've got to learn, — to learn how to 
smile when our hearts are breaking, and cheer 
when, if we did what we feel like doing, we would 
just sit down and cry. Oh, I'm not complaining. 

17 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



I love my country and I am patriotic and I shall 
bear up and act like a good soldier's true sister. 
But you needn't think it will be easy, for it's going 
to be hard — terribly, terribly hard! 

Philip {going to her and putting an arm about her). 
Of course it is, little sister. That's why you will 
be doing something for your country — as much, in 
staying here at home, you and Mother, as I am in 
going. Why, it will be the mothers and sisters 
at home, loving us and thinking of us, that will 
help us, more than anything else, to win. 

Hezekiah. My, but that sounds fine! You're a 
reg'lar orationer, Phil. But y' ought t' said 
" sweethearts " too, f 'r here comes yourn. 

(Jessie wipes her eyes, smiling bravely. Hezekiah 
has gone up c. ; looks off. ) 

Philip. Well, of course, I meant sweethearts, too. 

But as for mine — I guess you're mistaken there, 

Hezekiah. I have none. 
Hezekiah. So ? Wal, wal, do tell ! Thought y' had. 

'T any rate, here comes Lucy Garrett, lookin' like 

she must be somebuddy's sweetheart. Who's that 

with her? 
Jessie {looking out c. to r.). Why, it's Mr. Hunt, 

Phil, with — Lucy Garrett. 
Philip. Oh, is it? 

(Jessie comes down, to r. c. ; Hezekiah up l. Philip 
goes up, meets Rodney Hunt and Lucy Garrett, 
as they come in door c. to r.) 

Rodney. Good-afternoon, Miss Randall. 

{He comes down r, and shakes hands with Jessie, who 
seems a hit embarrassed. Jessie welcomes Lucy, 
ivho has spoken to Philip cordially.) 

Lucy {down r. c). I was on the way here, Jessie, to 
see you, when Mr. Hunt overtook me, so we came 
along together. 

i8 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Rodney {down r.). Yes. I was in luck for once. 

Eh, Phil? 
Philip {up c). You surely were. You know Mr. 

Wilkins, Mr. Hunt? He's our star " G. A. R." 

A real representative of the U. S. A. 
Hezekiah (l.). Glad t' know you, Mr. Hunt. What 

y' hunt'n' f'r — Huns? 
Rodney. M'm — well, not exactly. 

(Philip comes down c. As they all laugh, he seems 
somewhat annoyed. All well down stage, Lucy 
and Jessie r. ; Rodney c. ; Philip l. c. ; Hezekiah 

Lucy. Well, I guess he wouldn't find any here, if he 
were. It was a fine parade, Phil. I felt quite 
proud of you as you went marching by 

Philip {pleased). Of me, Lucy? 

Lucy. M'm — I meant of you all — the boys. But, of 
course, you too. 

Philip. Oh ! 

Jessie. Yes, I thought they looked splendid. {Notic- 
ing bag on Lucy's arm.) That your knitting, 
Lucy ? 

Lucy {holding up bag). Yes. Isn't it a beauty? I 
bought it in New York. Oh, you'll have to have 
one. They're all knitting. It's quite the thing. 
They knit in the street cars, and at the opera, the 
theatres — everywhere. 

Hezekiah. Anywheres s' long 's it's in public, I 
s'pose. Do they keep it up t' home, when they 
ain't nobuddy lookin'? 

Rodney {laughing). Indeed, no! That would be 
quite superfluous, you know. 

Hezekiah. Oh, would it? I thought it was some- 
thin' like that. 

Jessie. Come on, let's all go out in the yard. No 
use staying in here. I want you to show me your 
bag, Lucy, and what you are knitting. 

Lucy. All right. 

{They go up — Jessie first, followed by Rodney, to 

19 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



door c. They go off to R. Hezekiah in 'door c, 
Lucy up r. ; Philip crosses to her. ) 

Hezekiah. Be out here, Phil. Want f see y', when 
you git a minute. We're gitt'n' up a sort o' cele- 
bration 'n' I thought mebbe you'd help it along — 
you 'n' some of the boys. Drill 'r somethin'. 
Think you could? 

Philip. Oh, I guess so, Hezekiah. Talk it over, 
anyway. 

Hezekiah. All right. I'll be out by the barn, lookin' 
at the pigs. 

{Exit Hezekiah, to l. Lucy is about to go out, hut 
pauses as Philip speaks.) 

Philip. Lucy — wait ! 

Lucy. What, Phil, — what is it ? 

Philip. I — I wanted to speak to you. 

Lucy. But not now. Jessie is waiting for me, 
and 

Philip {up c). No, don't go, Lucy. Wait. I may 
not have another chance. You must know what 
I mean — how I feel. Oh, Lucy, I've got to tell 
you, now, — if I don't it may be too late. {She is 
about to go; he stops her.) No, you must listen. 
Lucy — I love you — I'm going away. I can't go 
without telling you — without knowing that you are 
waiting for me here. It's going to be hard to go, 
but — but if I could have that to think about — to 
know that you 

{She comes dozvn c. ; he follows her; she draws away 
from him, as he tries to take her hand. ) 

Lucy. Phil— don't. You mustn't. It isn't right. 

Philip. Why isn't it right? Hasn't a man a right 
to tell a girl he loves her — that she is the only one 
in the world for him, and that he has nothing to 
live for if she doesn't tell him she loves him? 

Lucy. Stop, Phil. You know you shouldn't say such 

20 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



things to me, and that I shouldn't listen to them. 
It isn't fair to — to him. 

{Lays knitting hag on table.) 

Philip. But why should we think of him? 

Lucy. You ask me that — you ? — and he your brother ? 
Do you mean to say that you could respect me if 
I should turn to you now, while he is shut up over 
there? Don't you know I promised him I would 
wait for him? Oh, you know I did — you know 
I did! 

Philip. But you can't, Lucy. You don't love him 
now. How can you ? He is a convict, a 

Lucy. Don't say it, Phil. He may be a convict, but 
that isn't saying he is guilty of the crime of which 
he was accused. There's many an innocent man 
behind prison walls, and many a guilty one outside 
of them. You ought to know that. 

Philip. I ? Why, Lucy, what do you mean 

Lucy. Oh, perhaps I don't mean anything, except 
that I never believed Tom Randall took that 
money. 

Philip. We needn't discuss that. It was proved 
against him. 

Lucy. Yes, and it was your testimony that did it. 
Yours — his brother's. Oh, I know you pretended 
you were reluctant to tell what you did — that you 
saw him coming out of the bank that night, an 
hour after it was closed, proving that he had gone 
back. And when the money was missing, and 
those bills were found on him, you " let slip " 
something that made them ask what you knew 
about it, and you had to tell. I know all that, but 
I know, too, that, in spite of it all, I never believed 
Tom guilty, never did and never shall. 

Philip. Well, you have a right to feel that way, and 
of course I hope you are right. I should like to 
see Tom vindicated, and I would do all I could to 
bring it about 

Lucy {close to him, looking sirairjht into his eyes). 
Do you mean that, Philip Randall ? 

21 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Philip (trying not to flinch, but unable to meet het 
gaze). Why, yes, of course I do. 

Lucy. Then why don't you tell ? 

Philip. Tell? Tell what 

Lucy. What you know. What you ought to tell — 
the truth ! 

Philip. I — I don't know what you mean. I can't 
imagine what you have got into your head. 

Lucy. Well, it's something you can't get out of it. 
It's something that makes that uniform you have 
on mean nothing to me, so long as I think what 
I do. 

Philip. Lucy ! 

Lucy. Oh, you needn't be afraid. I have never said 
this to anybody else, and Pm not going to do so. 
It's only my opinion, and it wouldn't do any good 
to express it. I may think things, but I can prove 
nothing, unless it is my faith in Tom Randall and 
my determination to stick to him and wait for him. 

Philip. What ! Do you mean to say you would 
marry him — marry him, after he comes out of 
prison, and face it out with him? I guess you 
don't realize what that would mean. 

Lucy. It would mean I believe him innocent, no mat- 
ter what all the rest of the world believe, and that 
there was one woman who didn't go back on a 
man just because things were against him. 

Philip. Yes, but 

{He walks up c, as Mrs. R. enters r.) 

Mrs. R. How do you do, Lucy ? Why, Lucy — Phil — 

what is the matter ? 
Philip. Nothing, Mother. Lucy and I were just 

discussing something, and we — we couldn't quite 

agree, that's all. I'll be out here with Jessie and 

Rodney. Will you come, Lucy? 
Lucy. Pretty soon. You needn't wait. 

{Exit Philip through door at c. and off l. Lucy is c. 
Mrs. R. goes to her.) 



FOR TEE OLD FLAG 



Mrs. R. Why, Lucy, what is it ? I am sure you and 
PhiHp have been having some words. I can't 
imagine — I thought you were such good friends. 

Lucy. Why, we are, Mrs. Randall. We weren't 
quarreling. I don't want to tell you what it was 
about, because— well, I know it is a subject that 
it hurts you to discuss. 

Mrs. R. Lucy, do you mean — Tom? Was it Tom 
you were talking about? 

Lucy. Yes, Mrs. Randall. Oh, you know how I feel ! 
You know I never believed him guilty, even when 
everything was against him. I couldn't believe 
Tom a — a thief. 

Mrs. R. I know, dear. That was because you loved 
him, and your heart, like mine, told you that it 
could not be so. 

Lucy. And it still tells me so. I still believe in him, 
I still love him, Mrs. Randall, and I'll wait for 
him. And when he comes out you and I will 
stick by him and comfort him — even if all the 
rest of the world turns against him. 

Mrs. R. You are a noble, true girl, Lucy, and Tom is 
blessed indeed in having such a heart as yours to 
beat for him. But, my dear, you forget — it can't 
be — there's your father 

Lucy. Oh, I know. Sometimes I almost wish he 
were not my father, he seems so hard, so cruel. 
He has forbidden me even to mention Tom's name. 
He calls him — those awful words that Mr. Stone, 
the District Attorney, spoke of him — oh, I shall 
never forget — and he, my own father, says he will 
have no more to do with me, that I shall no longer 
be his daughter, if I even speak to Tom again 
when he comes out. But do you think that will 
make any difference? Do you think even he can 
turn me against Tom? 

Mrs. R. No, no, my dear, of course not. But we 
must face the truth. Tom is my boy and, no 
matter what others think, I believe him innocent — 
I know he is. And it's oh, such a comfort to me 
to feel that you think so too. But we must face 

23 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



the truth, dear. Your father is a rich man, he 
has power and influence, and it was in his bank 
that — that that theft took place, and he believes 
Tom is the one that did it. Everything was against 
him, you know, and your father had reason to 
believe him guilty. 

Lucy. Oh, I know he had reasons. He was anxious 
to find them, it seemed to me, and so was that 
terrible, hard-hearted District Attorney Stone, 
whose name just suits him. Why, they wouldn't 
even give Tom the benefit of the doubt. 

Mrs. R. I'm afraid, Lucy dear, that they thought 
there wasn't any doubt. Poor Tom had to admit 
that he went back to the bank that night, and it 
was Phil, you know, who saw him coming out. 
Then all that money was found in Tom's room, 
more than he could ever have had of his own, 

and Oh, Lucy, everything was against him. 

Everything ! 

Lucy. Yes — even his own brother. His own flesh 
and blood convicted him. 

Mrs. R. Lucy! You mustn't blame Philip. You 
mustn't do that. That would be unjust. He had 
to tell. He tried not to, you know, but they ques- 
tioned him, and got it out of him. Oh, I wouldn't 
want you to feel that way, Lucy. It would be 
terrible, now that Phil is a soldier, to have him 
go away with any such a feeling as that on your 
part. Is — is that what you and he were talking 
about? (Lucy is silent; turns away.) Lucy, 
was it ? Did you make Philip feel that you blame 
him? 

Lucy (facing her, sadly). I'm sorry, Mrs. Randall. 
I was excited, thinking of Tom. It hurts me so, 
— and I said more than I should. I am sorry. 

Mrs. R. Well, it was because you feel so about Tom, 
dear, and Philip will understand. He won't lay 
it up against you. There, there, we won't think 
any more about it. I want you to stay and have 
supper with us, Lucy. Mr. Hunt is here, you 
know, and it will be quite a little party. 
24 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Lucy. Thank you, Mrs. Randall, but I don't believe 
I can 

Mrs. R. Oh, but I won't take " no " for an answer. 
We don't know how soon Philip may have to go 
away, you know, and we may not all be here to- 
gether again. 

Lucy. But if Mr. Hunt is here, I — really, I don't 
think I can stay. 

Mrs. R. You don't like him, I know. But never 
mind. Stay for my sake, and Phil's. 

Lucy. Oh, it isn't so much that I don't like Mr. Hunt. 
I distrust him. I can't understand what Phil sees 
in him to make such a friend of. 

Mrs. R. Why, they were chums w^hen Philip was 
away at school, you know, and Philip visited him 
in New York for several weeks, a few years ago, 
and 

Lucy. Yes. Just before Tom's trouble, wasn't it? 
Phil had just come back from New York, and 
Mr. Hunt had been here, and — I remember. 

Mrs. R. Why, Lucy, what do you mean? You 
mustn't keep dwelling on that. It doesn't do any 
good now, and we agreed not to talk about it any 
more, you know. We must think of other things — 
of the soldiers — of our country 

Lucy {trying to smile). Yes, I know. And I must 
knit. Goodness, think of all the time I've wasted. 
I might have done a dozen rows or more. (Gets 
bag from table, opens it, takes out knitting.) I 
promised to show it to Jessie. I think I'll go out. 
She's waiting for me. 

Mrs. R. (looking at knitting). Oh, you're getting 
along nicely, aren't you ? What is it ? 

Lucy. M'm — well, it isn't anything yet. 

Mrs. R. I see. Of course, I meant going to be. 

Lucy. I hope it is going to be a sweater. That's what 
I want it to be. But seeing it's my first, and I'm 
just sort of feeling my way, it may turn out to be 
a tippet, or maybe only a pair of wristlets. 

Mrs. R. Lucy! I'm sure it will be a beautiful 
sweater. 

25 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Lucy. Thanks for those kind words. May your 
faith be fully rewarded — and my good intentions. 

{They are up to door c, about to go out, but draw back 
as Jessie runs in from r.) 

Jessii:. Well, I must say it takes you long enough. 
I thought you were coming out with us. 

Lucy. So I am. I was just showing your mother my 
knitting. 

Mrs. R. Yes, dear; she says she is knitting a 
sweater — for some soldier, I suppose. Maybe 
it is for Phil. 

Jessie. Oh ! is it, Lucy ? 

Lucy. Mercy me, I don't even know it's going to be 
that. If it's only wristlets, he might not want 
them. (She has gone up to c. ; looks off to l.) 
Here comes Sophia Ash. 

Jessie. Is it? Oh, dear! I wonder if we've got to 
have her wished on to us. 

Mrs. R. Jessie, I am surprised. 

Jessie. Well, you needn't be. You don't want to see 
her yourself. You dread her coming here, you 
know you do. 

Mrs. R. What I dread is having her go into one of 
those spells — " trance," she calls it. She just 
makes me creep when she goes into one of them, 
and it seems to me she is always and forever get- 
ting under the influence of her " control," as she 
calls it. It's an Indian girl, her ** control " is, 
named — what is her name, Jessie ? 

Jessie. " Prairie Flower." Some flower, I call her, 
if she can " control " Sophia Ash, especially her 
tongue. Did you ever see her when she was in 
one, Lucy? 

Lucy. No, but I should love to. Do you think she 
could go into one this afternoon? 

Jessie. Could she? Just you wait. That's what 
she's coming here for. 

Lucy. I have heard about her and her trances, but 
never happened to see her when she was in one. 
What does she do? 

26 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Jessie. Acts like she had a fit, and tells you a lot of 
things you knov/ already. But here she is. Now, 
for it. 

{Enter Sophia Ash, through door c, from l., clasping 
her hands, rolling her eyes, with a " far-away '* 
expression and distracted manner. She does not 
notice the others, as she comes down c. Mrs. R. 
places chair r. c. and Sophia sinks into it, moan- 
ing, with clasped hands, and swaying gently from 
side to side.) 

Mrs. R. Oh, dear, she's in one of 'em. 

Jessie. I should say she is. I guess we're in for it, 

this time. 
Mrs. R. Jessie, dear, don't make fun of her. 
Jessie. Oh, I can't help it. 

{Enter Hezekiah through door c. from l. Sophia 
seated c. ; Mrs. R. is r. c. ; Jessie and Lucy l. c. ; 
Hezekiah comes down l.) 

Hezekiah. Oh, here's the mee-jum, is she? Thought 
I seen her comin' in. Phew ! she's havin' 'em. 

{Enter Philip and Rodney through door c, from L. ; 
they stand hack, looking on, amusedly. ) 

Lucy. S-sh ! She is going to speak. 

Jessie. H'm! that's nothing strange. Easiest thing 

she does. 
Mrs. R. Jessie! 

(Sophia sways back and forth, moaning, then stops, 
with closed eyes. The others all keep very still. 
Sophia mumbles indistinctly for a moment, then 
begins speaking, mysteriously.) 

Sophia. Prairie Flower say — Prairie Flower see — 

{stretching out arm, points) she see Oh, it 

is terrible — terrible She say — she see — she 

see troops, marching men, cannons, swords — hark ! 
it's the guns, booming, booming ! It's men — fight- 
ing — war, war — war! 
27 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



{Moans again, rocking hack and forlli, wailing.) 

Hezekiah. What d' y* think o' that ? Prairie Flower, 
she see war. Kind o' b'hind the times, ain't she? 

Sophia. I see beyond — there — far off — in the dis- 
tance 

Hezekiah. 'S fur's the middle o' next week, I reckon. 

{She waves her hands about.) 

Philip {looking on from back). She seems to be 

groping for something 

Rodney. Visions, maybe. 

Hezekiah. Acts more like she gropin' f'r flies 'r 

m'skeeters. 
Philip. Or a husband. You'd better look out, 

Hezekiah. 
Hezekiah. Gosh ! Guess I had. 
Lucy. I think it's perfectly ridiculous. 

{She goes up, joining Philip and Rodney. They are 
by door c, paying little attention to the others, 
talking, though occasionally glancing at Sophia, 
smiling. ) 

Sophia. All is dark again. Now I see — yes, there is 
a gleam of light. Hark ! I hear Prairie Flower's 
voice again. She is calling to me. She has a 
message for some one. Who? Who is it you 
want, Prairie Flower? I am listening. Yes, I 
hear you. But it is so faint. Speak louder, 
Prairie Flower. 

Hezekiah. Guess y' got a poor c'nection. Better call 
up central 

{Those at back laugh. Sophia straightens up, begins 
to *' come out of trance," shuddering, moaning, 
etc.) 

Mrs. R. There, she's coming to. 
Hezekiah. Two 'r three, looks like. 
Jessie {shaking Sophia gently). Miss Ash! Miss 
Ash! 

28 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Hezektah. Makes me tired, all that pretend'n' V 
puttV on. War? Goin' t* have war? Guess 
Vd better go 'n' send word t* th' President. Mebbe 
he'd like t' know th' news, 

Sophia {looking ab out, in a dazed manner). Where — 
where am I? Oh, it's — why, it's you, Mis' Ran- 
dall I And Jessie. 

Mrs. R. Yes, Sophia, you're here with us. Do you 
feel better now ? 

Sophia. Yes, I am all right now. But I have been 
far away — far away 

Hezektah. Can y' tell us when th' Kaiser's goin' t* 
git it in the neck, Miss Ash ? 

Sophia. Oh, you can make fun of me all you want 
to, Hezekiah Wilkins. But I guess if you had my 
powers, you'd have more respect for the mystic 
world. Sometimes I think it's almost an affliction 
to be so mediumistic, one gets so misunderstood 
and made fun of. But it's a gift — it comes with- 
out seekin'. 

Hezekiah. Like the mumps 'r the lumbago. 

(Lucy, Philip and Rodney laugh, about to go out.) 

Lucy. Come on, Jessie; we're going to take a little 
walk. Will you go? 

Jessie. Thanks, but I can't. I have to see about 
supper. Don't be long. It is nearly ready. 

Mrs. R. Yes, and you stay, Lucy. 

Jessie. Why, certainly she will. Pll put a plate on 
for her. 

Lucy. All right, then. Thank you, I will. (Philip 
and Rodney go off through c. door and to l., call- 
ing her. As she follows them.) Sorry you can't 
come, Jessie. But we won't be long. 

{Exeunt Philip, Rodney and Lucy through door c. 
to L. Jessie goes r. ) 

Jessie. I'll go and help Ivy, Mother. 
Mrs. R. Yes, dear, do. And have her call us as soon 
as it is ready. 

29 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



Jessie. All right. It will be only a few minutes, 

Mrs. R. I hope you are all right now, Sophia. 

Sophia {still seated, Mrs. R. at her l.). Yes, I'm all 
right. It does kind o' take my strength, though, 
when I have to go. Oh, Mis' Randall, it's terrible 
to be so misunderstood and made fun of. But I 
suppose it's my mission in life and I must accept 
it. My strange powers come to me and I must 
take what they bring. I try to ns^ 'em for good. 
You believe that, don't you. Mis' Randall ? 

Mrs. R. Why — a — ye^., Sophia, I guess so. At any 
rate, I believe you mean to be sincere and think 
you get '* messages," as you call them. 

SorriiA. Oh, you must believe me, Mis' Randall, you 
must. {Rises, goes and looks up c, then r. a^id l.) 
You must believe, for I — I have a message for 
3'ou. 

Mrs. R. For me, Sophia ? Why, what do you mean — 
from — not from your Indian girl ? 

Sophia {mysteriously, in subdued tones). Yes, from 
my ** control." When she was speaking to me 
then, just now, I got your name — it was a message 
for you — but I didn't want them to know. They 
don't believe — they interfere with the influence — 
so I had to wait till I could see you alone. 

{She glances about.) 

Mrs. R. Dear me, Sophia, you make me absolutely un- 
comfortable sometimes. I'd rather you wouldn't — 
I — really, I don't want your " message," as you 
call it. I don't mean to be ungrateful, but 

Sophia {grasping chair). I feel as if I was going 
again — she is calling me. Yes, Prairie Flower — 
I hear {Sinks into chair.) 

Mrs. R. Oh, Sophia, don't — try not to — really, I 
don't want to know, and you make me nervous. 
I'll call Jessie. 

30 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



{Starts R. ; Sophia grasps her hand, or dress, detains 
her.) 

Sophia. No, no— stay! You must listen. It is 

about — about your boy 

Mrs. R. Philip? About Philip? 

Sophia. No— the other one. 

Mrs. R. Tom ! It is something about Tom ? 

(Sophia is now again in a " trance," though less deeply 
than before. Her eyes are closed. She speaks 
softly, but distinctly.) 

Sophia. I see high walls— stone walls. Iron bars- 
gates— men in— uniforms? No, not uniforms. 
They are not soldiers. But they are dressed 
alike— they are marching. There, now they break 
ranks. They— ah!— I see one— he goes— he is 

called. He says, " Tell my mother " Yes, I 

hear. I see. The gates open— he comes out- 
he — a-ah ! 

{She sinks for a moment, as if exhausted. -Mrs. R. 
has become very much interested, as the import of 
what Sophia says gradually dawns upon her.) 

Mrs. R. Sophia ! Sophia Ash ! What do you mean ? 
What were you talking about ? You were making 
it all up. It isn't right. It is wicked— wicked ! 

Sophia {coming to). What! What have I said? 
Have I told you anything. Mis' Randall? 

Mrs. R. Told me anything? As if you didn't know. 
I am surprised at you, Sophia Ash, a good church 
member, that you should give yourself up to such 
practices. How can you ? 

Sophia. Oh, Mis' Randall, don't you go back on me 
too. Even the minister says it is my own imagma- 
tion. He said if it wasn't it must be—yes, he 
actually said " the power of the— the Evil One." 
What do you think of that ? 

Mrs. R. Well, of course, I wouldn't want to contra- 
st 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



diet anything the minister said. I have great con- 
fidence in his opinion. 
Sophia. Oh, yes, I suppose you agree with him. 

Well, I can't help it. I give my messages as they 

come to me, and i£ folks won't accept 'em, that 

ain't my fault. But when Prairie Flower calls, I 

have to answer. 
Jessie (off r.). Mother! 
Mrs. R. And when Jessie calls, I must answer. It 

means supper's ready. You'll stay and eat with 

us, Sophia? 
Sophia. Thanks, but you got so many, I guess I'd 

better be getting along. 
Mrs. R. (m door r.). Oh, there's always room for 

one more. You might as well stay. 
Ivy (suddenly appearing r.). Say, Mis* Randall, 

Jessie wants t' know 'f we shall cut that raisin 

cake ? 
Mrs. R. Certainly, Ivy. That will go nicely with 

your apple sauce. 
IvY. Yes'm. I'll tell 'er. 

(Exit, R.) 

Mrs. R. Come, Sophia. 

Sophia. Well, mebbe I will. If I could help a little, 

or anything, I'd be glad to. 
Mrs. R. Oh, I guess we won't need any help. But 

you come. 

Sophia. Well, seeing you insist 

Mrs. R. Why, of course I do. You go right in and 

I'll call the others. (Exit Sophia, r. Mrs. R. 

goes up to door c, calls off to l. ) Philip ! Lucy ! 

Come — supper is ready ! You all come in now. 

(She stands, waiting; there is a brief pause, then enter 
Philip from l., through door at c, with Lucy, 
followed by Rodney, then by Hezekiah.) 

Philip. Here we are, Mother. Lucy didn't want to 
come, but I made her. 

32 



jPOR TUM OLD PLAO 

Mrs. R. Why, certainly. I'd feel it terribly, Lucy, 

if you didn't stay. 
Lucy (smiling). Then I'll stay, of course. Besides, 

I'm just dying to, to tell the truth. 

{Enter Jessie, r.) 

Jessie. Come on, you folks. Supper's all ready. 

{Exeunt Jessie and Lucy, r., looking hack. Philip 
and Rodney are l. c. ; Hezekiah still has flag, 
which he nozv goes and lays on table. Philip 
places his soldier cap or hat on flag.) 

Philip {crossing to^.). Come, Rodney, now for some 
home cooking. 

Rodney. Delighted. I'm hungry enough to appre- 
ciate it, too. 

Philip. Oh, you don't have to be hungry to appre- 
ciate Mother's things. 

Mrs. R. Phil ! Don't mind him, Mr. Hunt. But I 
hope you do enjoy your supper. 

Rodney. Indeed I shall, Mrs. Randall. I can hardly 
wait. 

(Philip goes off to r. Rodney follows him off. 
Hezekiah goes to door r.) 

Hezekiah. Nice of you t' ask me too. Mis' Randall. 
D' know when I've et one o* your meals. 

Mrs. R. Why, the party wouldn't be complete with- 
out you, Hezekiah — the " Old Veteran " and the 
" New Volunteer," you know. 

Hezekiah. That's right — 'n' the Stars 'n' Stripes 
f 'rever ! 

Mrs. R. Yes, Hezekiah — forever and forever! {He 
exits R., chuckling happily. She stands a moment, 
in silent thought, then crosses to table, takes up' 
Philip's hat, looks at it fondly, proudly.) My 
boy — my handsome soldier boy! And oh, how 
gladly I would send him, too — my otlier boy — if 
he could be here to go — free from the shadow that 
hangs over him. Oh, Philip — Tom — my boys ! 

33 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



(Off R., iJie of hers have he en heard laughing and talk- 
ing; they have now started singing, not too loudly, 
" The Star Spangled Banner." Mrs. R. caresses 
hat, takes up corner of flag and kisses it reverently, 
weeping, but smiling through her tears. She re- 
mains thus a moment, then sinks into chair, buries 
her face in flag on table, weeping, with the hat still 
clasped in her hand. There is a pause, then Tom 
Randall, poorly clad, pale and ill-looking, appears 
at zvindow, looks in, sees Mrs. R. His face 
quivers, as he stands there, then he disappears and 
shortly appears in door c, pauses again, then 
slowly comes down to c, near Mrs. R., stands 
looking down at her. He seems about to speak, 
falters, then murmurs, " Mother! " She looks 
up, bezvildered, at first does not seem to recognize 
him, then, with a broken cry of joy, holds up her 
arms; he sinks to his knees at her side, burying 
his face in her lap, sobbing. She thoughtlessly 
hangs on to flag, pulls it over his head, bending 
over him and murmuring ''My boy! My hoy!" 
The singing of the anthem, off r., continues as the 
curtain falls.) 



CURTAIN 



34 



ACT II 

SCENE. — Same as Act I, the next afternoon. The 

flag previously used is still on table, or standing 
against wall, near door at c. Curtain rises on 
empty stage, hut Mrs. R. at once looks in from R., 
cautiously, then enters, goes to L., then to door c, 
looking carefidly about. Goes to R. and motions. 
Enter Ivy, with tray, on which are several dishes 
covered with cloth. Ivy shows wonderment, look- 
ing about curiously. 

Mrs. R. All right, Ivy ; bring it in. There's no one 

here. 
Ivy. I see they ain't, Mis' Randall, but I'm jest dyin' 

t' know v^hat 's all about 'n' who this lunch is f'r. 

You've had yours. 
Mrs. R. Yes, Ivy, but there's some one who hasn't 

had any — up-stairs, in the spare room. 
Ivy {so surprised she almost drops tray). For the 

land's sake — in the spare room! Who is it. Mis' 

Randall — a tramp ? 
Mrs. R. Why, no, of course not. It's — but I can't 

tell you yet ; and you know you promised to help 

me and not say a word. 
Ivy. Sure I did, 'n' I won't. But I can't help won- 

derin'. Ain't you af eared, 'r anything? When 

did he come? 
Mrs. R. Last night, while they were all eating supper. 

I took him up-stairs, before they got through, and 

none of them knew. I had to tell you, so you can 

help me get his meals to him and other things, and 

I'll tell the others soon. But not just yet. I'll 

take the tray now and go up with it. And you 

keep watch, and mind you don't tell anybody. 

{She takes tray, goes l.) 
35 



JPOR TEE OLD FLAQ 



Ivy (dumbfounded). No'm, I won't tell. But — a 
' man up-stairs in the spare room — be'n there all 

night. Mercy me! Is — is it anybuddy y' know, 

Mis' Randall, so 't you're sure he's safe ? 
Mrs. R. (in door l.). Oh, yes — somebody I know — 

well. Some one I have known a long time and 

longed to see — some one 

(Exit Mrs. R., at l., with tray. Ivy stands a moment 
looking after her, in dumb amazement, then starts 
R., but pauses as Sophia Ash appears in door c 
and knocks.) 

Ivy. Oh, 's that you, Miss Ash ? 

(Enter Sophia, door c.) 

Sophia. Ain't there anybuddy here, Ivy? I want t* 
see Mis' Randall. I hurried all the way over in 
the hot sun, b'cause I've got somethin' important 
to tell her. I'm jest about melted, but I couldn't 
get here soon enough, with what's on my mind. 

(Sits, L. c, takes paper or fan from table, or uses fan 
which she carries, fanning herself.) 

Ivy. I s'pose it's another one o' them visions, 'r what- 
ever you call 'em. Y' goin' t' have another fit 
here 'n our sett'n'-room ? If y' be, I'll be goin'. 

Sophia. Oh, you don't know what you're talkin* 
about. (Sits l.) What d' you know about the 
other world 'n' communications, 'n' spirit-mes- 
sages, and such? It's beyond your grasp. But 
you ain't the only one. What I endure 's enough 
t' try the patience of a Mrs. Job. There's that 
Hezekiah Wilkins. He never gives me a minute's 
peace. Taggin' me around, askin' 'f I've had any 
more spirits tell me I ought t' b'come Mrs. Wilkins 
number three. The idee! That old fossil! If 
I wanted a man, I'd get a hull one, not a mere 
remnant. 

(Ivy, up c, looks off to l.) 
36 



FOR TEE OLD FLAG 



Ivy. Here he comes now. Guess he's still on the 
trail. 

Sophia {rising, going ^p and looking off). I declare, 
so 'tis. Foliered me. I thought I'd dodged him. 
If that man's p'rposed t' me once he has fifty 
times, 'n' it don't seem t' do no good t' refuse him. 
He jest won't take " No " for an answer. 

Ivy. Well, 'tain't every girl 't has fifty pr'posals. 

Sophia {simpering a bit). N-no, of course not. But, 
then, I d' know's it's s' much, after all, bein' they're 
all from the same man. Here he comes. Guess 
I'll go 'n the other room, 'n' mebbe he'll go away. 
Don't you tell him I'm here. 

{She pretends to go, but lingers l., so that Hezekiah 
sees her, as he enters door c. from L. She pauses 
as he calls to her. ) 

Hezekiah. Oh, you here, Sophi'? Afternoon. 

Sophia. Jes' 's if you didn't know. You can't fool 
me, Hezekiah Wilkins. You saw me the hull time. 

Hezekiah. Nothin' strange, is it, Sophi' ? Don't see 
nothin' 'r nobuddy else, when you're 'round. Be'n 
tellin' y' that for the last eight 'r ten year, ain't I ? 

Sophia. Yes, 'n' I should think you'd 'a' made up 
your mind by this time that it ain't no use. I 
should think at your age, 'n' had two wives al- 
ready, you'd have some sense. 

Hezekiah. That's so. Mebbe 'f I had, I wouldn't 
want y'. 

Sophia. Oh, indeed! Well, thank goodness I've got 
sense enough not t' take y', anyway. 

Hezekiah. Now, Sophi', I didn't mean nothin'. You 
know you're the only woman in the world f'r 
me 

{He goes to her, tries to pacify her, about to put arm 
about her; she gets away from him, though, with 
all her contrariness, still seeming to encourage 
him. Ivy has gone to l. and keeps cautiously 
looking off.) 

37 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Sophia? Behave yourself, Hezekiah Wilkinsl rm 
astonished at your actions, after all the times I've 
told you (Noiichig Ivy.) Who you look- 
ing for, Ivy? What is it? 

I\^. Nothin'. I was jest — I v^as thinkin* I'd go 'n* 
pick some cucumbers for supper, 'n' 

Sophia. Land, they ain't no cucumbers in there, is 
they? 

Ivy. No, of course not. I — I was goin' in the garden. 
(Up in door c.) I'll go 'n' pick some. 

(Exit through door c. to r. Sophia is c, Hezekiah 
R. c.) 

Sophia. Don't she act funny? They's somethin' 
strange goin' on here. Did yom notice anything 
last night, Hezekiah ? 

Hezekiah. I d' know's I did — 'nless y' mean that 
" trance " o' yours. Wish you'd give 'em up, 
Sophi'. They make you ridic'lous. 

Sophia. Oh, they do, do they ? Well, I couldn't give 
'em up if I tried. They come to me. As I was 
sayin', didn't you notice how queer Mis' Randall 
acted? She didn't come in to supper for ten or 
fifteen minutes after we'd started eatin', 'n' then 
she acted so strange-like. But I laid it to the 
message I'd give her. I sort o' didn't wonder it 
upset her. 

Hezekiah. Oh ! had a " message " for her, did y' ? 
From the spirits ? 

Sophia. From the spirit-world. Quite direct. It 
was all perfectly clear. 

Hezekiah. From that Injun gal? 

Sophia. Yes — from my control, Prairie Flower. 

Hezekiah. Pretty thing t' be controlled by — a Injun 
spook! What you need t* control y' is a hus- 
band, Sophi'. 

Sophia. Oh, indeed! I'd like t' see the one that 
could do it ! 

Hezekiah (straightening up, pompously). Behold! 

Sophia. Good land, an old broken-down, wizened-up 

38 



FOB THE OLD FLAG" 

left-over like you ! Looks more like I'd have you 
t' take care of. 

Hezekiah. Wal, tliat'd suit me, Sophi'l 

Sophia. I don't doubt it. But it wouldn't suit me, 
not a little bit. For the land's sake, think of some- 
thing else. I'm wonderin' about Mis' Randall. 
Jessie noticed it, too, and spoke to me afterward. 
She said her mother acted as if she'd seen a ghost, 
'n' I've b'en worryin' for fear I'd upset her. Then 
I got another message last night, in the middle of 
the night — direct from Prairie Flower — to come 
over here to-day and await developments. I think 
something's going t' happen. 

Hezekiah. Mebbe they is, Sophi', mebbe they is. 
Mebbe you're goin' t' say " Yes." 

Sophia. Huh! Mebbe I ain't, any such thing. (Co- 
rn^ up.) I'm goin' on to the post-office, 'n' stop 
on my way back. I've got t' see Mis' Randall, but 
they's no use wastin' time. 

Hezekiah. Want comp'ny, Sophi'? I've got t' go 
to the post-office, too. 

Sophia {in door c. ; he c). No, I don't. {About to 
go, then turning back.) But, of course, if you 
want t' go to the post-office, it ain't none o' my 
business. I couldn't stop y'. 

Hezekiah {going up, with alacrity). Guess that's so. 
l^hanks f'r the hint. 

Sophia. Hint! The idee! I guess when I hint t' 
you, Hezekiah Wilkins 

{Exit through door c. to r. He follows her off, chuck- 
ling to himself. There is a slight pause, then 
Jessie and Rodney enter door from l. c. They 
look off to R., after Hezekiah and Sophia.) 

Jessie. There go Hezekiah Wilkins and Sophia Ash. 
He's been courting her for the last ten years or 
more, and she is still holding him off. 

( They enter, come down r. ) 

Rodney. Well, there's nothing like persistency. 

39 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



" Faint heart never won," you know. Perhaps he 

may still win her. 
Jessie. Perhaps. He would, I think, if he would only 

let her do part of the courting. She feels too sure 

of him. Once she thought she was going to lose 

him ■ 

Rodney. Oh, that's the idea! But it doesn't always 

work, does it ? Circumstances alter cases, you 

know, and I'm quite sure I wouldn't want to try 

such tactics with — well, with the girl I am anxious 

to win. She isn't that kind. 
Jessie. But I wasn't thinking of you. 
Rodney. No, That's just it. And I want you to. 

The way I think of you. Won't you — Jessie? 

{He is close to her; attempts to take her hand. She 
draws away. ) 

Jessie. No — don't. I — I can't let you do that. 

Rodney. But why? Why shouldn't you let me tell 
you I — I love you ? Surely, it's every man's privi- 
lege to tell his love and every girl's privilege to 
listen. 

Jessie. No, no — I 

Rodney. You know how I feel toward you. You 
must know. I have been here two summers now, 
and you cannot have failed to see that I love you — 
that I want 3^ou — and 

Jessie. Wait, Mr. Hunt 

Rodney. " Mister " 

Jessie. Well — Rodney. I — no, of course I can't say 
that I haven't noticed — that I have never thought 
of all this. But I have tried not to take it too 
seriously, because — because I felt — I know — that 
you mustn't tell me, and I must not listen. 

Rodney. But why — why ? 

Jessie. You know — ^you must know. My world is 
not the same as yours. I am only a country girl — 
oh, yes, I am — nothing more. Of course, I don't 
pretend to think I am not just as good, perhaps, as 
some of those who have had more advantages and 
40 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



seen more of the world than I have. And I don't 
say you don't think I am as good as they. But 
you lead a different life. Your folks are — well, 
what would they think of me ? 

Rodney. Think? Why, that you are the sweetest 
little girl in the world — and that I was the luckiest 
man there is in all that world, if I could win you. 
Oh, I know what you mean. You are afraid of 
me — afraid to trust me. You think I wouldn't 
keep on loving you — that I would change, and 

Jessie. No, no, it isn't that — not altogether. It is 
partly that, I'll admit, but — there is something 
else — more — oh, much more. Shall I tell you? 

Rodney. To be sure. I want to hear it. 

Jessie. Very well. You ought to be told. I guess 
you have been. But now I will tell you. You are 
nothing but a rich man's son — an idler — of no 
use — no good to — to any one — to your country ! 

Rodney. Oh, you mean — {turning away) I — see. 

Jessie. I hope you do. I want you to see. I have 
no use for a young man now, one that is strong 
and able, who wears any suit but his country's 
uniform. 

Rodney. I — I thought that had something to do 
with it. 

Jessie. Something to do with it? It has everything. 
Now you are to me nothing but a young man who 
is needed by his country, but who shuns that need 
and hangs back. A " slacker." Yes, that's what 
you are. Do you think I could listen to you — let 
you tell me you " love " me — and not tell you how 
I feel? Why, I should think I was a traitor too, 
if I did. 

Rodney. " Traitor. " I must say, you are putting it 
pretty strong. I guess if that's the way you feel, 
I might as well be going. 

Jessie. Yes, I guess so. Oh, Mr. Hunt — Rodney — 
you're not going to be <i " slacker " ! Tell me you 
are not. 

{He has gone part way up c. She is down r. c. 

41 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



There is a pause. He goes up, stands in door c, 
looking off. Turns, comes down.) 

Rodney. I will tell you that there is not another per- 
son in this world I would let talk to me as you 
have done. You have called me a coward — a 
" traitor." Well, I suppose that's what you think 
I am. But you don't understand. The truth is, 
I don't want to go to war. I don't believe in it. 
Oh, I suppose you will despise me worse than ever. 
I don't call it cowardice or treason, or anything 
like that. I just don't feel, yet, that we ought to 
be in this war — nor that, even if we are, I ought 
to go into it. There ! Now tell me you hate me — 
that I must go and never see you again. Just be- 
cause I have confessed to you — told you the truth. 

Jessie. The truth. That makes it all the worse, be- 
cause you expect me to believe that it is the truth. 
But I hope you will come to your senses yet — 
that you will change your mind. But until you 
do — yes, you might as well go. I don't think I 
care to see you again until I can respect you, at 
least. 

Rodney (closer to her). Don't you think you are 
putting it pretty strong? Even you may go a 
little too far, you know. 

Jessie (facing him boldly). No, I can't. I can't go 
too far when it comes to telling a slacker and a 
coward what I think of him — and I begin to think 
that's what I'm talking to now. 

Rodney. And I begin to think you are just talking 
for effect 

Jessie. Then let me tell you that I hope it has the 
effect I mean it to have. My brother is a soldier, 
and 

Rodney. Yes, but not from choice. He wouldn't be 
wearing that uniform if he had his way about it. 

Jessie. You dare!— you dare call my ])rother a cow- 
ard ? Oh, now I do despise you — I do, I do ! Go ! 
Go away from here — from me — I don't want to 
see you again, ever ! I wish I never had seen you ! 
42 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



{She is in a fury of grief and anger. He is showing 
amazement and some anger, but is beginning to be 
sorry for what he has said. Would appease her, 
but she flares at him, and he goes up, just as 
Philip enters at door c. from r., putting out his 
arms and stopping Rodney, who looks at him sur- 
prised, somewhat sheepishly.) 

Philip. Why, why, what's all this? What's the 

matter? Are you two quarreling? 
Rodney. I have nothing to say except that I — I'm 

sorry, and I'm going. 

(He tries to go, but Philip detains him.) 

Philip. Wait. I want to get at this. What's it all 
about ? 

Rodney. Nothing. Only we — we can't agree, that's 
all, and your sister told me to leave her, that she 
doesn't want to have anything more to do with 
me, and that — well, I'll let her explain. I'm sorry, 
Miss Randall, if I have offended you. Perhaps 
some day you will think better of me. 

(He bows to her, with cold politeness and exits at door 
c. to L. Philip looks after him, in amazement, 
then comes down to Jessie, who is r. c, standing 
with her back to him, between anger and tears. ) 

Philip. Well, well, I guess something is up, and no 
mistake. Come, now — 'fess up. What's it all 
about ? 

Jessie. Oh, it's enough. He said he doesn't feel that 
it's his duty to fight, and — I called him a coward, 
and — and told him I never want to see him again 
and 

Philip. And— and— a lot of stuff like that. You 
shouldn't have taken him quite so seriously, Jessie. 
Rod is no coward; it's the way he's been raised, 
that's all. Lived in luxury all his life, with a dot- 
ing mother and everything he wanted. You can't 
expect a fellow like that to be very keen about 

43 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



wearing a uniform and putting up with what 
he'd have to. 

Jessie. Indeed! How much better is he than you, 
I should hke to know ? I agree with Mr. Wilkins 
about him. He's the kind that could be spared, 
instead of the real men that don't wait till they 
are compelled to go. I guess you wouldn't stick 
up for him quite so fast if you knew what he 
said about you. 

Philip. Said I wasn't crazy about going myself, I 
suppose? Oh, he's said the same to me, and I 
guess maybe it's the truth — in a way. {She shows 
signs of disapproval.) There, there, now, little 
one, don't explode. I'm going, all right. Isn't 
that enough for you? 

Jessie. No, it isn't — not if you don't want to go, and 
feel it's a privilege. But I know you do, Phil. 
You're only trying to tease me. I couldn't bear 
to think you are not a real, true soldier at heart. 

Philip (putting an arm about her). Well, then you 
just think I'm everything you want me to be, little 
sister, and I'll try to live up to it. And don't feel 
so put out about Rodney, either. He'll come out 
all right. He hasn't waked up yet, that's all. 
There, now do you feel better? 

Jessie. Y-yes, I guess so. 

(Mrs. R. enters l., with tray, unnoticed by them. She 
quickly exits again, unseen, and at the same 
moment Lucy Garrett appears at door c. fromh.) 

Lucy. Oh, there you are — here, rather. Excuse me 

for not knocking 

Philip. Sure. " Don't knock." Had enough of that 

around here already. 

Lucy. Why, what 

Jessie. Don't mind him, Lucy. He's only teasing. 

Come in. 
Philip. Yes. Take off your hat and stay a while. 

Stay forever. 
Lucy. Thanks, but I have a home of ni}^ own. Well, 

and how's the handsome soldier boy to-day ? 

44 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



{Comes down c.) 

Philip. Meaning — this one? 

Lucy. Why, certainly. You're the only one around 

here, aren't you? 
Philip. M'm — yes, the only soldier boy, I guess. 

But Pm not quite sure I answer your descrip- 
tion 

Jessie. Oh, stop fishing. Don't you humor him, 

Lucy. Lie's too stuck up for anything already. 

You might think he was a general. 
Philip. General what? Not nuisance, I hope? 
Jessie. Sometimes you try hard enough to be. But 

the uniform saves you. 
Philip. *' 'Neath the folds of the Stars and Stripes ! " 
Lucy. I hope they protect you from worse things 

than being a nuisance, Phil. How long are you 

staying here ? 
Philip. I have to get back to the camp soon — in half 

an hour or so. Can't even stay to supper. But 

you're going to stay, aren't you, Lucy ? 
Lucy. What — again? After last night? You must 

think your mother wants me for a boarder. No, 

thank you. I only ran over to see Jessie a minute. 
Philip. Cruel one. Where do I come in ? 
Lucy. Why, you may come in for this sweater, if I 

ever get it done. 

{She has knitting-hag, which she now opens, taking 
out knitting, which has grown several rows since 
first act.) 

Jessie. Oh, is that what it is, Lucy? 

Lucy. Not is — going to be, I hope. At least, I've de- 
cided that's what Pve started out to make. Let's 
see, Phil. Stand still. (She measures length of 
knitting on his back.) My, what shoulders you 
have ! There's a lot to do yet ! 

Jessie. Why, I think you're getting along real well. 

Philip. Let's see. (Examines knitting.) Why don't 
you make a pair of socks of it? 'Twouldn't take 
so long. Save yarn, too. 

45 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Jessiej Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Phil Ranclall, 
after her saying it's for you? Come on, Lucy.^ 
Don't pay any attention to him. 

(They have been well down c. Jessie now goes up, 
motioning Lucy to follow her.) 

Philip. Where you going ? 

Jessie. Oh, just out in the yard. Come on, Lucy. 

Philip. Can't I come too ? 

Jessie. No, you can't. We have something to talk 

over. 
Philip. Not over an hour or two, I hope. I can't 

wait. 

(Jessie and Lucy go up; he follows. Exit Jessie at 
door c. to L. Lucy lingers in door c. ) 

Lucy. We won't be long. Mr. Wilkins has had us 

put in the committee for the parade and all, and 

we have to make plans. 
Philip. But you might let me help. (Lucy is about 

to go out, but he goes up and detains her. ) Lucy — 

aren't you going to change your mind ? You didn't 

mean what you said? 
Lucy. Yes, I did. I meant it — every word of it. 

(He has hold of her hand or arm. She releases 

herself from him.) Don't, Phil. 

Philip. But, Lucy 

Lucy. No. It's no use. 

(Exit Lucy hurriedly, at door c. to l. He stands look- 
ing after her, with a disappointed, then an angry 
expression. After a pause clinches his fist, with 
set teeth, showing rage. Walks a few steps down 
c, then turns and goes up rapidly, and at door c. 
collides with Oliver, who enters from l., carrying 
two or three packages. ) 

Oliver (stepping quickly to one side, saluting). Hi! 
Make way for the U. S. Army. What'd y' take 
me for — Germans? 

46 



FOR THE OLD FLAQ) 

./ 

Philip. Oh, go to — thunder! 

{Exit Philip, door c. to r., glancing off to L.-, angrily, 
Oliver goes up, looks after him, then to L.) 

Oliver. Phew ! Hope he keeps up that gait when he 
gets t' the real war. Looks Hke he could kill the 
Kaiser V a hundred Germans 's easy's nothin'. 
{Goes to door R. Calls.) Hey! Anybuddy 
there ? Mis' Randall — Ivy — here's y' groc'ries 1 

(Enter Ivy, door c. from r., mith several cucumbers, 
or something to resemble them, in her apron.) 

Ivy. What's all y'r 'xcitement? 

Oliver. Oh, there you be! Here's the things you 

sent f'r. 
Ivy. Well, y' needn't tear the house down a-deliverin' 

'em. Take 'em in the kitchen. 

{She has come down l. ; he crosses to her.) 

Oliver. Yes, little Ivy-vine. Come along 'n' cling. 
Ivy {slapping him). Oh, hush up, with that old 

chestnut ! Can't you think of a new one ? 
Oliver. Sure. " You be my poison Ivy 'n' I'll be 

your antidote ! " 
Ivy. Nanny-goat? I guess you'd make a good one. 

Go on. Take them things in there! 
Oliver. Oh, I'm a-goin'. 

{She runs after him; he exits quickly R., looking bach. 
She is about to follow him, but pauses up c. as 
Mrs. R. enters l., with tray.) 

Mrs. R. Ivy. 

Ivy. Yes, Mis* Randall. 

Mrs. R. Take this tray, please. 

Ivy (takes tray, looks under napkin, sees empty dishes). 

Oh, Mis' Randall, who is it? 
Mrs. R. Never mind, now. You will know soon. 

But for the present, remember what I told you. 
47 



FOB TEE OLD FLAG 

Ivy (r.). Yes, Mis' Randall, but I— I'm jest dyin' t* 

know. I can't imagine 

Mrs. R. Well, don't try. You'll know before long. 
Ivy. In the spare room ! My ! — I wonder who 'tis. 

{Exit R., looking at dishes under napkin. Mrs. R. 
stands a moment, looks to l., with a tender, but 
sad, expression. Clasps hands, crosses to l., look- 
ing off, shaking head slowly, then bozvrng it, with 
an expression denoting a mingling of smiles and 
tears. Murmurs softly. ) 

Mrs. R. My boy ! My poor, poor boy ! My little 
Tom 

(Sophia Ash appears in door c, from r. Stands for 
a moment regarding Mrs. R. in silence, then speaks 
softly. ) 

Sophia. Mis' Randall. 

Mrs. R. (l. c, turning — startled). Oh! — that you, 

Sophia? I — I didn't hear you. 
Sophia (up c). No, I noticed you didn't. You 

seemed lost. You was talkin' to y'rself. 

(Comes down r.) 

Mrs. R. Was I ? Oh, I guess I often do that. It's a 
sort of a habit. I can't seem to break myself of it. 
Won't you sit down, Sophia? (Comes down r.) 

Sophia. Well, mebbe I will, jest for a few minutes. 
I'm pretty well het up, and some excited. 

Mrs. R. Excited, Sophia ? What about ? 

Sophia. Oh, several things. Hezekiah Wilkins, for 
one. 

Mrs. R. Hezekiah? Oh, I should think you'd be 
used to him by this time. 

Sophia. Used to him? Yes, I s'pose a person can 
get used t' anything in time — like a bunion, for 
instance — but I declare if I can get used t' Heze- 
kiah Wilkins enough not t' notice him. 
48 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



{She sits down R., fannhig herself with newspaper in 
a wrapper zvhich she has just procured from the 
post-office. ) 

Mrs. R. That's just it, Sophia. (Sits r. c.) 

Sophia. Just what ? 

Mrs. R. Why, there's a reason for it. If it meant 
nothing to you, you wouldn't notice him. 

Sophia. That's jest what it does mean — nothin'. 
The idee — Hezekiah Wilkins, that old fossil with 
one leg 's good 's in the grave. 

Mrs. R. Yes, but a soldier's leg and a soldier's grave, 
Sophia. Think of that, Hezekiah is a good man 
and a soldier. You know how long he's been 
courting you ; and he never gives up hope. 

Sophia. Mis' Randall! Do you think I'd ever take 
Hezekiah Wilkins? 

Mrs. R. Why, yes, Sophia. Why not ? 

Sophia. Land! You must think I want to start a 
soldiers' home. 

Mrs. R. Well, why not ? You've got a good home to 
take him to, and he has a nice pension to do his 
share with. Hasn't " Prairie Flower " ever re- 
vealed him to you, Sophia? 

Sophia. Huh ! I guess Prairie Flower's got bigger 
things to reveal 'n Hezekiah Wilkins. That's what 
I wanted to see you about, Mis' Randall. I've got 
something to communicate. (Mysteriously.) 

Mrs. R. Oh, Sophia ! Another message ? 

Sophia. Yes. Real definite this time. (Looking 
about.) They ain't nobuddy listenin', is they? 

Mrs. R. (she is still standing, now goes up, looks about, 
then comes back to c). No. Jessie and Lucy 
Garrett are out there, but they can't hear. 

Sophia. And Phil? 

Mrs. R. He isn't around anywhere just now. If you 
really must tell me something, you are quite safe. 
Nobody will hear. 

Sophia. All right. Set down, Mis' Randall. Pull 
your chair up close. (Mrs. R. puts chair near 
Sophia, sits.) You know what I told you yes- 

49 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



terday when I was here — about what Prairie 
Flower revealed to me ? 

Mrs. R. Yes. You said she showed you — iron 
bars — gates opening — and — and some one coming 
out 

Sophia. And do you know who that somebuddy was ? 
Oh, Mis' Randall, don't you know ? 

Mrs. R. Do you know, Sophia ? 

Sophia. Yes, I- — know. I saw him. 

Mrs. R. {rising, excitedly). Saw him? In one of 
your — trances, do you mean ? 

Sophia {also standing). Partly. That way first. 
That is — it came to me, in a way — so that I sort o* 
knew what it meant, and then — I saw — with my 
own eyes. I saw him — and knew him. 

Mrs. R. When? 

Sophia. Why, it was yesterday — jest before I come 
over here. On the way over. I was comin' 
along, and he dodged back, sort of, b'hind some 
bushes, up there on the corner, by Garretts' place. 
I jest caught a glimpse of his face, but I knew 
him — leastwise I thought I did. But I didn't jest 
sense it, then. I seemed t' kind o' think it was a 
vision-like — 't mebbe I was half in a trance, and — 
I thought I hadn't better tell you, too plain. Jest 
give you a warnin' — as if it had come to me, from 
Prairie Flower, y' know. Jest enough so 't you'd 
be kind of prepared, in case it was him, really, 'n' 
he should come in on y'. I was a feared mebbe, 
if it was too sudd'n, it might be too much for y*. 
I meant well, Mis' Randall. 

Mrs. R. I know you did, Sophia. I suppose it was 
kind of you, too. I'm sure you meant it to be. 
But it wasn't necessaiy. I have been watching, 
waiting, never giving up hope that he would come. 
I have prayed — prayed and believed — that I 
wouldn't have to wait three years more. And oh, 
Sophia — Sophia, my prayer has been answered. 

Sophia {grasping her arm). Mis' Randall! It was 
him ? He's here ? 

Mrs. R. Yes, Sophia. He came last night, while you 

50 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



were all eating supper. I put him up in the spare 
room. He is there now — sick; so sick and weak, 
but free — free, Sophia! My boy, my Tom, is 
free and home again, here with me. Just in time 
to take Phil's place, now that he's going away. 
Oh, Sophia, isn't it wonderful? 

Sophia. Wonderful? Yes, it is. How'd he get 
away so soon? I thought it was three hull years 
yet 

Mrs. R. He was pardoned, as I had believed he would 
be. But nobody knows that he is here, nobody but 
you and me, Sophia, and you mustn't tell just yet. 
Please wait. Just till to-night. Then I don't 
care who knows. I want everybody to know. 
After I have told Phil and Jessie, and he has seen 
them — then let the whole world know. He is 
free — innocent, even if the shadow of that awful 
prison, those terrible three years still clings to 
him. But he is innocent — I know it — I always 
knew it — and no matter what anybody else thinks, 
I shall always believe and feel sure that he has 
had to suffer for what somebody else did. 

Sophia. Somebody else. But who? Do you sus- 
pect — do you think 

Mrs. R. No. That may never be known. But even 
if it isn't, I shall believe and know that it wasn't 
my Tom. {Looks out door c.) Somebody's 
coming. Remember what I said, Sophia. Not a 
word. 

Sophia. All right, Mis* Randall. You can depend 
on me. {Looks toward door c.) Oh, it's Heze- 
kiah come back. I might 'a' known he wouldn't 
be fur b'hind. 

{Enter Hezekiah, door c. from r. Mrs. R. is up c, 
Sophia down r. c.) 

Hezekiah. Afternoon, Mis' Randall. Oh, that you, 

Sophi' ? 
Sophia. Of course it's me. Who'd y' think it was? 
Hezekiah. Wal, I didn't know but it might be little 

^ Prairie Flower." ( Chuckles. ) 

51 



FOR THE OLD FLAQ 



Sophia. You think that's cute, don't y'? Wal, it 
ain't It's irreverent, that*s what it is — makin' 
fun o* sacred things. 

Hezekiah. " Sacred ! " Huh ! Fail t' see what's 
sacred about 'n Injun gal, 'n' a dead one 't that. 

Sophia. " Dead one." 'N' you didn't know but I 
was her! Thanks f'r the compliment — but I 
guess I ain't a dead one yet. Not quite. 

{Going up c, pretending to he greatly injured.) 

Hezekiah. Now, Sophi', you know I didn't mean 
nothin'. {Following her.) Can't you take a 
little joke? 

Sophia. Joke! Wal, I don't call it a joke, 'f you 
do — makin' fun o' Prairie Flower, 'n' me too. 
Don't you follow me, Hezekiah Wilkins ! I won't 
speak to y' 'f y' do. {In door c.) Good-after- 
noon, Mis' Randall. I'll remember what you said. 
You c'n trust me. {About to go out.) 

Hezekiah {up by her, pleadingly). Now, Sophi' — 
don't git mad. I didn't mean it, hope t' die I 
didn't. Can't you take the word of an old soldier ? 

Sophia. No, I can't — not when he's an old reprobate, 
too ! {Just going out, she turns, sees him close be- 
hind her; motions him back with a commanding 
gesture. ) Stay ! I'm done with you — forever I 
Do y' hear? — forever! 

{Exit Sophia, haughtily, door c. to l. Hezekiah 
looks after her, dejectedly. Mrs. R. is at l. c. ) 

Hezekiah. Oh, Mis' Randall, do y' think she means 
it? 

Mrs. R. No, of course I don't. She's just pretend- 
ing, to make you all the more anxious. She'll 
come around all right. 

Hezekiah {coming down to c). Do y' think so. Mis' 
Randall — honest ? 

Mrs. R. Why, of course I do. I know women and 
I know — her. You are taking the wrong tactics, 
Hezekiah. If you were a little more hang-offish, 
52 



FOB TEE OLD FLAG 



SO to Speak, you'd soon see that I'm right. You're 
too anxious, and she likes to keep you dangling. 

Hezekiah. Mebbe that's so. 

Mrs. R. I'm sure it's so. Just you try leavin' her 
alone for a while — pretend there's somebody 
else 

Hezekiah. But they ain't. {Goes up c.) 

Mrs. R. Well, you can pretend there is, can't you ? 
" All's fair in love and war," you know, and hav- 
ing been through a Avar, and had two wives al- 
ready, you ought to know a little bit about love 
too, it seems to me. 

Hezekiah. That's right. Guess I had. I vum, I 
b'lieve you're right. Mis' Randall. 'LI be gum- 
swizzled 'f I don't try it, too. Much obleeged for 
th' hint. 

(Oliver runs in r., followed by Ivy, who is chasing 

him, striking at him with broom. He runs rapidly 
up and into Hezekiah, who turns upon him. ) 

Oliver. Oh, 'xcuse me, Mr. Wilkins. Didn't see y'. 
Hezekiah. Wal, you'd better look where y're goin'. 

(Ivy about to hit Oliver again with broom, hits 

Hezekiah instead.) Hey, there, what's all this? 
Mrs. R. Iv}^ ! What do you mean by such actions ? 

Stop it this minute. 
Ivy. I don't care. He's the boldest thing! Tried t' 

kiss me. 
Oliver. Tried t'? Did! 
Ivy. Yes, 'n' I'll pay you back for it, too. 
Oliver. All right. I'm ready. Put it right there. 

{Offering his pursed-up lips. She slaps him.) 

Ouch ! 
Hezekiah {between them). Here, here, that'll do. 

{Taking Oliver by ear.) Now you 'pologize, 

young man, 
Oliver. What f'r? Ain't done nothin' I'm sorry f'r. 
Hezekiah. Stole a kiss fr'm her, didn't y'? 
Oliver. Stole it nothin'. Jest borrowed it. Willin' 

t' put it back right where I got it from. 
Ivy. Well, I guess you won't. 

53 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



(Strikes at him. Hezekiaii shields him.) 

Hezekiah. Talk about the Germans 'n' th' Alleys. 
Guess we got war right here. Eh, Mis' Randall? 

Mrs. R. I'm astonished. Ivy, you go straight back 
to that kitchen. And you'd better go back to the 
store, Oliver Moon. And the next time I order 
groceries you needn't bother to take them in where 
she is. You can leave them right here. 

Ivy. Huh! Needn't think I'm goin' t' lug 'em the 
rest of the way. 

Mrs. R. That will do. Do as I told you. 

Ivy. Yes, ma'am. {Going to door r.) But I don't 
care. I know a secret, 'n' if you ain't careful I'll 
tell. So there ! 

{Exits r., impudently.) 

Hezekiah. Guess you've kind o' sp'iled her, Mis* 

Randall. 
Oliver. Naw ! She ain't sp'iled. Fresh as ever — 'n' 

sweet, too. Yum-yum ! 

{Drawing finger across lips. Ivy looks in r. He sees 
her; she makes face at him. He laughs, throws 
her a kiss.) 

Hezekiah. Hey, there, what's all this? 
Mrs. R. Ivy! What did I tell you? 

(Ivy disappears ; exit Oliver, laughing mischievously, 
as Hezekiah good-naturedly cuffs him. Heze- 
kiah pauses at door c.) 

Hezekiah. See? 'T's jest the same, young, middle- 
aged 'r old. Takes two t' be lovers 'n' two t' fight. 
Jest th' same story, right down sence Adam 'n' 
Eve. Guess you're right about me 'n' Sophi', too, 
Mis' Randall. Much obleeged agin. Goin' t' try 
your p'rscription. 'F it works '11 let y' know. 
Hope it does. Hope it does. 

Mrs. R. And I think it will, Hezekiah. I'm quite 
sure it will. You try it. 

54 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Hezekiah. All right, Mis' Randall, I will. *N' if at 
fust I don't succeed, I'll try it agin 'n' agin. I'll 
win 'er yet, 'f I have t' call out th' hull United 
States m'litia 'n' the G. A. R. t' do it. 

(Exit, door c. and to l. Mrs. R., in door c, pauses, 
looks after hhn a 7noment, then comes part way 
down c, looks about, and exit l. She has just 
disappeared when Jessie and Lucy enter door c. 
frojn L. They come down.) 

Jessie. I wish you didn't feel that way about Phil, 
Lucy. I'm sure you wrong him. 

Lucy. Perhaps I do. But I can't help it. I have 
told him and told him, times enough, that I — that — 
oh, you knov/ what I mean, Jessie. Surely you 
don't think I ought to go back on — on Tom, just 
because of — of what happened? 

Jessie. No, of course I don't. How could you think 
such a thing? 

Lucy. Oh, I didn't, but — well, you take Phil's part, 
and — and sometimes I think everybody has gone 
back on Tom except his mother and me. I never 
believed him a — a thief, and I never would. No, 
not if all the world told me so. 

Jessie. Lucy ! You know I don't either. No, no, it 
isn't that. I wouldn't have you go back on Tom. 
I admire you for being so true to him. But I'm 
afraid it's no use. There's your father, you know, 
Tom's employer, who had him sent to prison, and 
who believes him guilty, and who has forbidden 
you even to speak of Tom, and — oh, Lucy, dear, 
you see how hopeless it all is. 

Lucy. No, it is not hopeless. When Tom comes 
back, if he still wants me, I want him too — in 
spite of my father — in spite of everything. 

Jessie. Lucy, do you mean it ? Could you do that ? 

Lucy. Of course I could — and will. I should hate 
and despise myself, as much as I should expect 
him to despise me — or think he ought to — if I did 
otherwise. But we won't talk any more about it 

as 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



now. I'm going before Phil comes back. I don't 
want to see him again. 

Jessie. Please don't feel that way, Lucy. He is go- 
ing away — across the ocean — to fight for his coun- 
try. You can't let him go feeling that you are 
mad at him — that you are not his friend. Just 
think what that would mean to him. 

Lucy. I am his friend. Of course I am. But — I 
want him to know — to understand 

(She has gone up, is in door c, about to go out; looks 
off R., draws back.) 

Jessie. What is it? 

Lucy. It's Phil. He's coming back. I'll have to 
speak to him. Perhaps it is just as well. I'll tell 
him once more and make him understand. 

Jbssie. But kindly, Lucy. Be careful. Remem- 
ber 

Lucy. Oh, yes, I'll remember that he is a soldier — 
that he is going to war, and — I'll remember some 
one else too — some one and — some — thing. 

Jessie. Why, Lucy — what do you mean? 

Lucy. Never mind. Please go, Jessie. I want to 
see Phil alone. Please do. 

Jessie. Why, yes, of course I will, if you want me 
to. Only — please — please be kind to him. 

(Lucy nods head, smiling faintly. Exit Jessie, r. 
Lucy comes part way down r. Enter Philip, 
door c. from r. Sees her, comes down c.) 

Philip. Oh, you're still here? I thought you had 

gone. 
Lucy. I was just going. I'll go now. 

(Starts up c. He detains her.) 

Philip. Wait. Just a minute. We might as well 
have it out, Lucy. You know how I feel, but you 
have chosen to misunderstand me, to say things 
that I am sure you can't mean. Don't you think 
you can reconsider? 

56 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Lucy There's nothing to reconsider. I meant all 
tiiat I said. Not tinkindly, Phil, please believe 
that. I don't want you to go away feehng that I 
am not your friend 

Philip. Friend ! That isn't enough. You cannot be 
my friend, Lucy, without being more than that to 
me. I want your word — your promise — that when 
I come back you will be my wife— that I may have 
that joy to look forward to, to sustain me, in all 
that I may have to face over there. Think what 
it would mean to me, Lucy, if I could know that 
you were waiting here for me— how much better 
i could fight, if it was for you as well as for— my 
country. Lucy— say you will ! Oh, if you knew 
all it means to me— if you could only know 

(They are down c, she at his R. They do not see Tom 
who, having bathed, combed his hair, etc., though 
wearing the same clothes, looks much better than 
at his first appearance, enters l. and stands there, 
looking at them. He is still very pale, agitated, 
and seems scarcely able to control himself, hit 
does not as yet reveal his presence.) 

Lucy. And what do you think it means to me ? And 
to him— to that one, your own brother, whose 
rights you seem to forget? 

Philip. Rights! The rights of a— convict! 

Lucy. Stop! Don't you dare say a word against 
him in my presence. He may be a " convict so 
far as wearing prison clothes and being confined 
behind iron bars is concerned. But that doesn t 
make him a thief. You ought to know that, Philip 
Randall. You ought to know that— and you do 

know it ! .,/-..• 

Philip. What do you mean? It isn't the first time 

youVe made that insinuation, and now you ve got 

to explain. Tell me. You've got to tell me. 
Lucy. There's nothing for me to tell. It is you who 

should tell, who ought to have told— long ago 

Philip. Tell what? 

57 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Lucy. The— truth ! 

Philip. Do you mean to say that I — lied? Do you? 
Do 3^ou dare say that? {He seems almost to 
fhreaten her, advancing toward her, and as she 
draws away from him, facing u, she sees Tom, 
who has advanced, with livid face, his eyes star- 
ing, looking faint and leaning on table l. c. 
Philip has his back turned toward l. and does 
not see Tom. Lucy gives a suppressed scream, 
almost overcome as she sees Tom and stares at 
him, at first seeming not to believe her senses. 
Philip pauses, amazed at her expression. ) Why, 
Lucy, what is it? What 

{He turns; sees Tom, becomes speechless with sur- 
prise, in which there is something of fear, or dis- 
may. Tom does not speak, but looks fixedly at 
Philip for a moment, then turns to Lucy, motion- 
ing her to leave them. ) 

Lucy. Tom — I — I can't beheve it, Tom. Why, 

where — how 

Tom. Please go, Lucy. I want to speak to Phil 



Lucy. But, Tom, aren't you glad to see me ? Won't 
you speak to me? 

Tom. Glad? Oh, Lucy, if you only knew how glad! 
Why, it's like seeing the sunshine after years of 
darkness. And after what I just heard you say, 
it's worth all the world to see you again and to 
feel that you still believe in me. But I want you 
to go now, for a little while. Will you, Lucy ? 

Lucy. Yes, of course, Tom, if you want me to. But 
not till you have shaken hands with me. I can't 
wait for that. 

{They are c, part way up; Philip, looking almost 
overcome, has withdrawn slightly to r. Lucy 
holds out her hand to Tom, looking straight into 
his eyes, with a tender, pleading expression. He 
falters an instant, still shozving his weakness, then, 
almost in tears, grasps her hand.) 

Tom. Lucy ! 

58 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



{He holds her hand a moment, then releases if. She 
smiles at him encouragingly and exits by door c. 
to L. He stands looking after her, then turns and, 
with a change of expression, showing mingled 
anger, bitterness and determination, looks straight 
at Philip, who tries boldly to meet his gaze but 
is not able wholly to do so. ) 

Philip {down r.). Well, Tom, so you are home? 
You don't wonder I'm a bit — a — surprised, do 
you? Isn't it rather sudden, or — unexpected? 

Tom {coming down c). I suppose it is, and none 
too welcome to you, either, if the truth were 
known. I don't flatter myself you are quite so 
glad to see me as Lucy Garrett appeared to be. 

Philip. Why, of — of course I am. Only, you see, 
I had no idea — we weren't expecting you just yet, 
and — naturally it upsets me a little. You see, I 
thought 

Tom. I know. You thought I was safe behind those 
stone walls and those iron bars, where you were 
the means of placing me, and where you'd like to 
have me stay. But you thought wrong, for I'm 
not there now. I was there three years, though. 
Wasn't that long enough for an innocent man — 
one who was there instead of another, who ought 
to have been in his place? 

(Philip seems to avoid his brother, though showing 
thai he is trying to disguise his real feelings and 
to appear at ease. Tom, hozvever, is relentless in 
his gaze and his manner, so that Philip cannot 
altogether conceal his perturbation.) 

Philip. I don't know what you mean. 

Tom. I think you do. If not, I can soon tell you. 

It was your testimony that sent me to that prison, 

wasn't it? 
Philip. Well, if it was, it was because it was forced 

out of me. I was summoned as a witness. I had 

to tell what I knew. 

59 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Tom. Yes— what you " knew " — and a good deal 
more that you didn't know. 

Philip. What do you mean by that ? Do you mean 
to insinuate 

Tom. I don't mean to " insinuate " at all. I mean to 
speak my mind and to say what I think — yes, what 
I know now, though I didn't then. (Philip 
makes a gesture of impatience, walks up, as if to 
go. Tom steps in his way, makes him remain.) 
No, you can't go. You've got to listen to what I 
have to say — what I've been weeks and months 
waiting and longing to have an opportunity to say 
to you. There's no use going over it all, except 
for a few things that may refresh your memory. 

Philip. Oh, it isn't necessary. I haven't forgotten. 

Tom. So much the better. But perhaps I can tell 
you a thing or two you don't know. You don't 
know, for one thing, that during the three years I 
have been shut up there, suffering for something 
that I never did, I have thought and thought and 
thought, till things have become clear. You know 
I went back to the bank that night, about nine 
o'clock, because I found that I had in my pocket a 
letter containing a check for a large sum from a 
depositor, which I meant to put in the safe. So 
I went back to the bank. I had a perfect right 
to go in there, after hours. I had a key, and often 
went in, to work at the books, when I was behind, 
or to look after something. But that night I 
found the safe open and a lot of money gone — 
more than a thousand dollars. Naturally I was 
excited. I hardly knew what to do, but I suppose 
I did the worst thing possible — closed the safe and 
went out, thinking I'd wait till morning before I 
said anything about it. I knew afterward that I 
did a foolish thing, something that I couldn't ex- 
plain — especially when they found those bills, 
amounting to two hundred dollars, hidden in my 
room. And then when you — so reluctantly! — 
" let it out " that you were passing the bank and 
saw me come out, and I had no real explanation 
60 



FOR TEE OLD FLAG 



as to why I didn't: report the robbery at once, that 
night, except that I was so frightened and excited 
that I couldn't think and didn't know what I was 
doing, why — it all went against me and I was pro- 
nounced a — thief ! 

Philip. Well, I don't see as you have offered any- 
thing, as yet, even to suggest that the verdict 
wasn't a just one. 

Tom. But I'm not through. Listen. Look — look 
here — look me straight in the face 

(Philip has tried to ignore him, but now is compelled 
to face him, which he does, at first boldly.) 

Philip. Well, — what ? 

Tom. Can you look me in the face and tell me — 
swear to me — that you know of no reason why that 
verdict was a wrong one? — that you honestly be- 
lieve I took that money? 

Philip. Oh, well, even if I didn't, I couldn't help 
what happened. I simply answered questions — 
told what I saAV — and it went against you. It 
wasn't my fault. I tried to spare you — to keep 
from telling, but — they made me. 

Tom. Oh, yes, I remember. You managed to act 
very much as if you were testifying unwillingly, 
and I was too crushed, too dazed, then, to see 
through you, to see what you were up to and to 
understand what I understand now. You were 
sacrificing me to save yourself. 

Philip. What ! You dare ! You dare accuse me 

Tom. Yes, to accuse you to your face and to tell 
others. It has all come to me. I am as sure as I 
am that I was three years in prison, that I was 
there innocent of any crime, and that I am now 
here talking to you, that you were the one who 
had been in the bank — that it was you who opened 
the safe and took that money — you, Philip Ran- 
dall, you! 

Philip. You're crazy. You must be, to imagine such 
a yarn and to think that anybody would believe it. 
6i 



FOB THE OLD FLAO 



Tom. They shall believe it! Til make them! An'd 
ril have help in proving that what I say is true. 

Philip {doubly alarmed). Help? Why, what do 
you mean? Who — who wnll — help you? 

Tom. You will — you! You, yourself. 

Philip {relieved). Ho! Now I know you*re crazy. 
How could 1 help you? My story woiald be the 
same. 

Tom. No, it would be an entirely different story this 
time. You wouldn't have it quite so much your 
way, for I would be a different man and I would 
have a few things to say — a few questions to sug- 
gest. Why were you near the bank that night? 
Where did you get all the money you had after 
that — to go to New York and to go with the set 
you went with ? Ha ! You see I have found out 
a few things, even shut up there behind prison 
walls. I have been out of there two months, and 
I haven't been idle. 

Philip. Out — two months ! Did you — escape ? 

Tom. No. It isn't easy to escape from Dannemora, 
and I wasn't fool enough even to attempt such a 
thing. No, I didn't escape, I was pardoned. Par- 
doned two months ago, and I have spent the time 
to good advantage, even if at last I have come 
home sick and penniless. But I have come home 
with a purpose, and nothing shall turn me from it. 
Do you know what that purpose is ? 

Philip. Why, no, Tom, unless — I suppose it is to 
live down the past and make a new start 

Tom. You're nowhere near guessing it. My purpose 
is different from that. It's to expose the guilty 
man, the one who sent me to prison, and to make 
him suffer as I have. Yes — no matter who that 
man is — even if he is my — own — brother ! 

Philip. Pooh! You're just talking. You have no 
proofs — you can't have. 

Tom {fixing Philip with his accusing ga^e). I have 

my will and you have your conscience — even if 

there was nothing more. (Philip cowers, in spite 

of himself.) Why, you show it — you show it 

62 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



now! It's Avritten in your face — all the proof 
that is necessary. You couldn't deny it— you 
couldn't I 

Philip {trying to recover himself). Pshaw! No- 
body would pay any attention to you. 

Tom. Oh, yes, they will. FU make them. Pll make 
them pay attention, and I'll make you tell the 
truth, in spite of yourself. 

{There is a pause. Philip has walked part way up c, 
where he stands as if in deep thought, his head 
bowed. Tom looks at him, waiting for him to 
speak. Finally Philip lifts his head, comes 
down, facing Tom.) 

Philip. Very well. Do it. Tell it all — ^your sus- 
picions, what you think and what you know. But 
think, first, what it would mean. Think of our 
mother — of our country — of this uniform. 

Tom. Yes, the uniform which you disgrace by wear- 
ing. Oh, I noticed it, but it means nothing to me 
when it is worn by a man like you. 

Philip. Can you say that? Can you say that it 
means nothing, if I am willing to go to France, to 
try and prove that I am a man, not a coward, and 
that I will die, if need be, to do it? I mean it, 
Tom. Won't you give me a chance — for the sake 
of Mother — of Uncle Sam — for the flag? I want 
to make good, and you can help me. Won't you 
do it ? It's up to you. 

Tom. Pretty late, seems to me, after all I've been 
through because of you. What about that? Do 
you mean you own up to it — that you will con- 
fess? 

Philip. I mean that I want to keep my uniform, to 
go to^ France — to fight and do my bit. Think 
what it would mean if I had to give up now. It 
would kill Mother — I guess it would kill me too, 
Tom. I should never live to bear it. After all, 
Fm your brother, even if I have done wrong 

Tom. " Brother ! " There was a time when you for- 

63 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



got that, I guess. It's a nice kind of brother 
you've been to nie. And now — now, after I've 
spent three years in prison, for what you did; 
given up my good name and got it all to live down, 
if I ever can, you ask me to keep silent about it, 
to let them still think I am a thief. Don't you 
think it's a good deal to ask ? 

Philip. Yes, Tom, I do. But can you go? Can 
you wear this uniform in my place and go and fight 
for Uncle Sam — for France — for Liberty ? 

Tom (cogitating, sadly). No. N-no — I can't go, 
I'm not strong enough. I'm a wreck. But it was 
you made me so — don't forget that. 

Philip. I don't forget, Tom — I never will forget. I 
promise you that. I swear that I will prove it to 
you, and that I will do the right thing. Only let 
me go now, and some day you will not be sorry. 
Will you do it, Tom — will you ? 

(Philip is near him, speaking with eager entreaty. 
Tom falters, seeming to ponder. The sacrifice is 
almost too much for him, but after a pause he 
looks at Philip, then turns his gaze to the flag. 
Finally raises his head bravely, with one hand on 
flag, looks straight at Philip.) 

Tom. Yes. I'll do it. Go. Prove your manhood — 
fight for yourself and for me. I'll try to do my 
bit too, here at home. I will keep still and send 
you in my place. But see that you wear that uni- 
form like a soldier and a man — or — I'll have my 
revenge yet. 

(Philip seems scarcely able to believe what he hears. 
Is overcome; almost breaks down. Holds out his 
hand. ) 

Philip. Tom — my brother — you are more of a her^o 
than I can ever be, even on the battle-field. And 
I promise you what you are doing shall not be m 
vain. {As Tom refuses to take his hand.) Won't 
you wish me luck, Tom? 
64 



FOR THK OLD PLAO 



Tom. I wish you luck, yes — luck and success. But — 
don't say any more. I can't stand it. Just go — 
go! 

Philip. But I can trust you — you promise? 

Tom. Yes. I promise. Now go. (He turns away 
from Philip. Tom is down l. Philip looks 
at him a moment, as if about to speak again, hut 
instead goes r. c, takes his hat from table, goes up 
and exits at door c. to R., without looking hack. 
Tom stands a moment in silence, his head bowed; 
theft straightens up, with a brave look, his face 
brightened by lofty courage and determination. 
Shakes head slowly, as he glances l., as if thinking 
" Mother! " then takes up corner of flag, clasps it 
in both hands, looks down at it reverently.) Yes, 
I can do it. I will. For you, Old Flag — for 
you! 



CURTAIN 



65 



ACT III 

SCENE. — Same as before, an evening in the next 
February. The doors are closed, window cur- 
tains drawn, etc. Mrs. R. sits by table, i.., knitting 
on soldier's sweater. Up R. c. are seated Ivy and 
Oliver, busily engaged playing checkers. There 
is a pause after rise of curtain. Ivy and Oliver 
intently studying the board and Mrs. R. earnestly 
working. Then Ivy exclaims joyfully, as she 
finally makes a move. 

Ivy. There! Now I got y'. Move! Go on, slow- 
poke! Don't y* see it's your move? 

Oliver {calmly, with assurance). Why, so 'tis — sure 
enough. All right. There — and there — and there ! 
{Jumps one of his " kings " several times, taking 
Ivy's men and winning game. ) Now y' satisfied ? 

Ivy. Wha — what y' doin' ? I didn't see that. 

Oliver. No, o' course y' didn't; but I did. Beat y' 
agin. See ? 

Ivy. Yes, I see 't you cheated. 

Oliver. Huh ! Leave it to a girl t' squeal when she's 
beat. 'D ruther play with a feller, any time. 

Ivy. Oh, y' would? Well, then, play with 'em, Mr. 
Smarty. I don't care. 

{Jumps up, upsetting board and spilling checkers on 
floor. ) 

Mrs. R. {looking up). Dear me, children, if yott 
can't play a game of checkers without ending up 
in a quarrel every time, I guess you'd better not 
play any more. I'm surprised at you. 

Ivy. Well, I don't care. Mis' Randall, he cheated. I 
didn't have t' move that way, 'n' he made me do it. 
6^ 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Oliver. Made y' ! 'F you was silly enough t' move 

jest where I wanted y' to, that was your fault. 

'Tain't my fault 'f you don't know enough to look 

out for y'r own interest. That's where the game 

comes in. 

Ivy. Oh, 'tis, is it? I want t' know 

Oliver. Sure 'tis. That's " st-st-rattlegem "—like 

they do in the war. 
Ivy. My ! Ain't you smart ? T's a wonder you 

don't go 'n' tell 'em how t' lick the Kaiser. 
Oliver. Goin' t', pretty soon. Soon's I git old 

enough. 
Ivy. Yes. You 'n' your " goin' t's." Huh! 'T's 

easy enough t' talk. 
Mrs. R. There now, that will do, you two. Ivy, did 

you light the fire in the front room, as I told 

you to? 
Ivy. Yes'm. Quite a while ago. 'T must be gett'n' 

real warm in there by this time. 
Mrs. R. Well, you pick up those checkers 'n' things, 

and then go and see. 
Oliver {picking up checkers). I'll pick 'em up. Mis' 

Randall. 
Mrs. R. Thank you, Oliver. That's the way I like 

to see you — acting the gentleman. 
Ivy {who has gone to door l., snickering) . Who — 

him? 
Mrs. R. Yes — him. I wish you'd take pattern after 

him a liitle 

Ivy. 'N' try t' be a " gentleman " ? 

Mrs. R. No, of course not. A " lady," which I'm 

afraid you never will be, if you don't start in 

pretty soon. Now you go and see to that fire, and 

have it a good one, 'cause Lucy Garrett is coming 

to spend the night with Jessie, and they may want 

to have some music. Probably Tom will play on 

his violin and Lucy will sing. I hope so, 't any 

rate. 
Ivy. Yes, 'n' I might favor with a song too, 'f you 

urged me enough, 
Oliver. Ho ! that would be a treat, that would. 

07 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



{She makes a face at him and exits L. He has placed 
checker-board, etc., on table or stand, up R. Now 
is c.) 

Mrs. R. You can stay and hear them, if you wish, 
Oliver. You like music, I know. 

Oliver. You jest bet I do, Mis' Randall. Your Tom 
certainly can play that fiddle, and as for Lucy 
Garrett, she sings like a reg'lar op'ry. 

Mrs. R. Well, she ought to sing well. She took 
lessons in New York at two dollars a lesson, when 
she stayed there all that time with her mother's 
folks. She plays on the piano well, too, but of 
course, we only having an organ, she can't do so 
much when she's here. Her father bought her a 
beautiful upright. She always says she could 
make her own living giving music lessons, if it was 
necessary. But I guess it never will be, and her 
father with all his money. 

Oliver. No, I don't s'pose it will, unless he should 
turn her out, 'r somethin'. 

Mrs. R. Why, Oliver, what do you mean ? 

Oliver. Nothin'. Only I hear the men talking, down 
't the store sometimes, 'n' they say 'f she don't 
give up your Tom, her father's goin* t' throw her 
out. He don't know she ever sees him. I guess 
she wouldn't be over here t' stay with Jessie all 
night t'-night 'f her father wa'n't in New York 
f'r a week. H he finds it out when he comes 
home there'll be — the dickens t' pay. 

Mrs. R. Oliver ! I believe you're a regular gossip. 
Goodness, I didn't know men, and boys too, like 
you, talked that way about folks. 

Oliver. Oh, y' didn't ? Well, y' ought t' work in our 
store a few nights, 'n' I guess you'd change y'r 
mind. Gossip? Huh! Why, some o' them men 
could give Sophia Ash and all her spirits 'n' things 
lessons. (Going l.) Guess I'll go in and see 'f 
I can help Ivy, Mis' Randall. 

Mrs. R. Yes, I guess you'd better. And see that you 
don't repeat any of that talk. It's terrible. I 
68 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



wouldn't want Tom to hear it for anything. It's 
hard enough for him as it is, with all he has to 
bear. 
Oliver. Oh, I won't say anything. But I guess it 
wouldn't be much news t' him, 'f I did. 

{Exit Oliver, l. Mrs. R., who has kept on knitting, 
now wipes eyes with end of sweater, almost weep- 
ing. There is a slight pause, then Tom enters, 
door c. He is zuell wrapped up in heavy over- 
coat, with cap pidled down, etc., and there is snow 
on his head and shoidders. He takes off cap, 
shaking it, then brushes snow from coat. Mrs. R. 
does not notice him until he speaks.) 

Tom. Why, Mother, what's the matter? Not crying 

again? Now, you know what you promised me. 
Mrs. R. Oh, Tom, is that you ? I didn't hear you 

come in. Is it snowing? 
Tom. Yes. It started just as I left the post-office. 

It's already getting quite deep. Looks like we're 

in for a real snow-storm. 

( Takes off hat and coat, throwing them on chair. ) 

Mrs. R. (hesitating, as if fearful to ask). Wasn't 
there any — letter — Tom? 

Tom {^oing to her, standing by her, putting hand on 
her shoidder tenderly). No, dear. But don't 
worry. It takes a long time for a letter to come 
from France, you know 

Mrs. R. I should say it did. We haven't heard a 
word from Phil for over two months. 

Tom. I know, but that's no proof he hasn't written. 
Just think how uncertain the mails must be now, 
and — there, there, don't you fret. " No news is 
good news," you know. 

Mrs. R. Perhaps — sometimes. But not these times. 
With this terrible war going on, and my boy — my 
handsome, brave boy over there fighting — oh, I'm 

afraid he is sick, or — or Oh, Tom, I can't 

bear it, I can't ! 

69 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



'YoM. '{his arm about her). Mother! Is that the way 
to be brave ? You know we promised each other. 
You said if I would be brave and make the best 
of — of things — you would, too. 

{He goes up r., as if unable to control himself. She 
rises, goes toward him, laying her knitting on 
table.) 

Mrs. R. Tom ! Forgive me. I forgot. It was very 
selfish of me. You are fighting a harder battle 
than any soldier over there in that awful war. 
You are a hero too 

Tom. Mother — don't! We weren't to speak of it, 
you know. (Draws her down c.) 

Mrs. R. But I must speak of it. I must tell you that 
I don't mean to be selfish, to think only of him 
and his danger and heroism, when you are here 
facing what you have to face. Oh, if we could 
only find out the truth — if we could prove your 
innocence 

Tom. Mother! 

Mrs. R. For you are innocent, Tom, I always knew 
it. Nothing could ever make me believe you took 
that money. 

Tom (now close to her, c). But somebody took it, 
Mother, and somebody had to be blamed for it. 
Appearances were against me and I have had to 
pay the penalty. It is all over now, so let us 
not take it up again. 

Mrs. R. Over ! Over — and you still thought a thief 
and shunned by people who should know better, 
who do know better, only they are too uncharitable 
to say so. Tom, you never told me what you 
did — what you found out — those weeks after you 
left the — after you were freed — before you came 
home. Did you never find out anything — who 
else had been to the bank, or near it, that night, 
so that you had something to work on, to prove 
your own innocence? That first night when you 
came home you let it out that you had suspicions, 
70 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



that you had found evidence — had proofs — then 
all of a sudden you kept still, you wouldn't tell 
me any more, and you never tried to find out. 
What was the reason, Tom? Why was it? 
Tom. Mother, dear, there is nothing to tell. At first 
1 was dazed— excited— I didn't know what I 
thought or said, and I imagined many things. 
Afterward I saw that it was no use, that every- 
thing was against me, and I gave it up. If it 
hadn't been for you, and Jessie, and— and her, 
Heaven bless her, I— I guess I would have given 

up- . , 

Mrs. R. Tom ! She is coming here to-night— to stay 
all night with Jessie. I expect her any minute. 

Tom. Who? You mean— Lucy is? 

Mrs. R. Yes. Her father's gone to New York for a 
week, and she's coming over to spend the night 
with Jessie. I suppose she hadn't ought to— 
probably it isn't right, and him telling her she 
mustn't— well, anyhow, she's coming. Jessie said 
she said she just would, anyway, and if her 
father didn't like it she didn't know as she cared 
much. I guess she's about made up her mind to 
take things into her own hands. 

Tom. Lucy's a brick, Mother. There isn't another 
girl in the world like her. But I wouldn't let her 
do that— go against her father and— and take up 
with me, so long as things are as they are now. 
It wouldn't be right. I should be a coward to let 
her, and I won't. 

Mrs. R. I know, Tom. You're too good and noble. 
But it's hard. Oh, if you could prove your inno- 
cence. Isn't there any hope, Tom — none? 

Tom. No, Mother, I'm afraid not. I've got to bear 
it. I promised, and 

Mrs. R. Promised? Why, what do you mean?— 
" promised " who ? 

Tom. Why, nobody, I— I meant I promised myself 
I'd never let Lucy Garrett sacrifice herself for me, 
even if she was willing to. I hope I should never 
stoop to that. 

71 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Mrs. R. Oh ! Well, Lucy'd do it, I'm sure she would. 
She's that kind of girl, and she believes in you 
too, Tom — the same as I do. 

Tom ( they are at c. ; he puts an arm about her, ten- 
derly). Yes, and that's everything to me. Mother 
— ^}'0u and Lucy. I can stand it, so long as I have 
that much. But, oh, it's hard not to be able to 
enlist, to go with the boys " Over There." They 
need me. Mother — they need every man who's able 
to go. 

Mrs. R. But Phil's there. We need you here. I 
can't give you both up — yet. I will, gladly — I 
mean willingly — when it comes to it. Even 
that — for my country. But I hope it won't be 
yet — not just yet. 

(Ivy thrusts head in l., calling out suddenly.) 

Ivy. Say, Mis' Randall, c'n Oliver 'n' me have some 

apples ? 
Mrs. R. Yes, of course. But land, can't you wait? 

We're going to have apples and cider and cake, 

by and by. 
Ivy. We'd ruther have some apples now. Oliver 

would. 
Mrs. R. Oh, well, then — of course. 
Ivy {who has entered — hurrying to r.). All right. 

I'll git some. 

{Exit R., as Jessie enters same door. She comes to 
R. c. ; Mrs. R. goes to table l. ; Tom is c.) 

Jessie. Oh, here you are. I didn't know you were 

back from the post-office, Tom. Wasn't there any 

letter? 
Tom. No. 
Mrs. R. No, Jessie, not a word. Isn't it strange? 

I'm so afraid something has happened to Phil. 

We ought to have had a letter before this. 
Jessie. Well, it won't do any good to worry, that's 

certain. {Goes up, lifts curtain, looks out.) 
72 



FOR TEE OLD FLAG 



Seems to me it's about time Lucy came. My, it's 

snowng real hard. 
Mrs. R. Yes, so Tom says. Do you think she can 

come over all right, alone ? 
Jessie. Why, of course. It isn't far, and she's not 

afraid. But why don't you go after her, Tom? 
Tom. Do you think I'd— better ? 

{He shows eagerness, but some hesitation.) 

Jessie. Sure. Don't you, Mother ? 

Mrs. R. Why, yes, of course. I don't see why not. 

You might meet her. 
Tom (taking hat and overcoat, putting them on). All 

right, I will. I guess there won't be any crime 

in that. {Up at door c.) Besides, it's dark. 

Nobody will see us. But I don't care if they do — 

the whole world! 

{Exit hurriedly, door c. Mrs. R. is again seated l. 
of table, with knitting; Jessie up by door c.) 

Mrs. R. Oh, Jessie, isn't it terrible? He loves Lucy 
and she loves him. But with this terrible thing 
hanging over him — and he vows and declares he'd 
never let Lucy go against her father for him. He 
says he couldn't be such a coward. He's a brave 
boy, Tom is — a hero. 

Jessie {coming down to l. c). Yes, I suppose he is. 
But I guess there's such a thing as overdoing it. 
Maybe he's a little too set on being a hero. 

Mrs. R. Why, Jessie, what do you mean? 

Jessie. Oh, I mean that sometimes I wish Tom had 
more spunk, and was a little more determined to 
stick up for himself and not mind so much what 
people say. Maybe if he'd act more like he didn't 
care so much, and face people as if he had some 
pride, they'd begin to think more of him. 

Mrs. R. Why, Jessie, how you talk! I'm sur- 
prised 

Jessie. Well, I can't help it. Sometimes I think Tom 
has a reason — that he knows much mure than he 

73 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



lets on, and is shielding somebody. I must say, it 
doesn't look natural to me, the way he changed all 
of a sudden, and the way he acts 

Mrs. R. {rising, laying knitting on table). Jessie — 
what do you mean — *' shielding " somebody ? 
How could he ? — who — who could it be ? 

Jessie. Have you never wondered — thought that per- 
haps there was something — more than we 
know ? 

Mrs. R. Of course I have. He hinted as much, and 

then — all of a sudden Oh, I don't know 

what to think. There's some mystery. Alto- 
gether, with thinking of Phil — 'way over there — 
perhaps wounded, or dead — and then my other 
boy, here, despised and suffering — it seems as if 
it is more than I can bear. 

{Stamping of feet heard outside door c.) 

Jessie. There, there, Mother, dear, don't. Some- 
body's coming. Perhaps it's 

'{Goes up, opens door, admits Lucy Garrett and Tom, 
both with snow on shoulders. Lucy wears cloak, 
furs, etc. They enter, Lucy coming down, cor- 
dially greeted by Mrs. R. and Jessie. Tom has 
her small hand-bag, which he sets down, staying 
somewhat back.) 

Lucy. Well, here I am. 

Mrs. R. Yes, in a regular snow-storm. 

Lucy. Oh, I don't mind. I just love it. Tom met 

me. It was real kind of him to come after me. 
Jessie. Yes, considerably after — you had started. 

( They laugh. ) But he had to be sent, you know. 

Lucy. Now, you're spoiling it 

Tom {coming down, somewhat embarrassed). You 

know better than that, don't you, Lucy? You 

believe, anyhow, that 1 wanted to come, only — ■ — 
Lucy. Yes, Tom, of course I do. Don't you let this 

little sister of yours tease you. 

74 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Mrs. R. I'll take your things, Lucy, and put tliem 

up in your room. 
Jessie. No, I'll take them. You're to sleep in the 

room next to mine, Lucy — you know, with the 

door between. (Taking Lucy's cloak, etc.) 
Lucy. Fine. But, here, I must have my knitting. 

Can't lose any time on that sweater, you know. 

It's in that bag, Tom. 

(Tom presents hag; she takes out partly finished 
sweater, with needles, wool, etc.) 

Jessie. Yes, and I must get mine. We're all doing 
it, you know. 

Mrs. R. How many does this make, Lucy ? 

Lucy. Seven. I wish it were twenty-seven. 

Mrs. R. My! I think you've done wonders. And 
me, with only the second. 

Jessie (l.). And look at poor little me, still working 
on my first pair of socks. Oh, I'm some knit- 
ter — nit ! 

{Exit, L. Tom is down c. ; Lucy l. c. ; Mrs. R., l. 
of table.) 

Tom. I'll go and put up my hat and overcoat. 

They're kind of wet. (Goings.) Excuse me? 
Lucy. Certainly. Only come back — soon. 
Tom. Sure! Don't have this treat every day, and I 

don't want to miss any of it. 

(He smiles and exits r. Mrs. R. looks surprised, 
Lucy pleased.) 

Mrs. R. Well, that's about the first he's chirked up 
that way since — I don't know when. He seems 
quite like himself. Oh, Lucy, it's you — all you — 

with him. I mean, if only Oh, do you 

think there's any hope — that it will ever be cleared 
up, and — all? 

Lucy. Yes, Mrs. Randall, I believe it will. I mean 
it shall be. I've made up my mind to stick by 
Tom — well, I guess you knew I had done that 

75 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



long ago — but I mean I'm going to help clear it 
up. I don't intend to let anybody — even my own 
father — hold me back any longer. If Tom won't 
tell what he knows, and do what he can do — why, 
somebody will have to make him. There is some 
reason for his silence. I know it. More than 
once he has let it out, and it's time we found out 
what that reason is. 

Mrs. R. Why, Lucy, you talk just like Jessie. That's 
about Avhat she was saying just before you came. 
Have you and she been putting your heads to- 
gether ? 

Lucy. Yes, Mrs. Randall, we have — our heads and 
our hearts. And our whole souls are in it, too. 
And we want your help — your faith — your 
prayers. 

(Mrs. R. does not speak, hut takes one of Lucy's 
hands in both of hers, holding it tenderly, with 
a smile of assent and encouragement. Enter 
Oliver, l.) 

Oliver. 'Xcuseme. I was (6*^^.? Lucy.) Oh, 

good-even'n', Miss Garrett. 
Lucy. Good-evening, Oliver. How are you? 
Oliver. Fair t' middling, thank y'. I was lookin' for 

Ivy. She said she'd get some apples. Strikes 

me mebbe she's eat'n' 'em, too. Takes her long 

enough. 
Mrs. R. I guess you'd better go and see about it, 

Oliver. I think you'll find her in the kitchen. 
Oliver {going r.). All right — thanks — guess I will. 

D' know's she'll give me any, after all, she's s' 

mad 'cause I beat her playin' checkers. Guess 

mebbe I c'n coax her up, though. 'S all right, 'f 

y' know how t' handle girls. 
Lucy. So you've found that out, have you, Mr. 

Moon? 
Oliver. Sure. Long ago. {In door r.) Say, Miss 

Garrett, you goin' t' sing? 
Lucy. I don't know. Perhaps. Why ? 

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FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Oliver. 'Cause Td like t* hang around V hear it. 

Hope it's one o' them op'ry pieces — all wobbly. 
Lucy. Wobbly ? 
Oliver. Yes, — trilly-like {Makes attempt at 

trill, running up to a high note in a falsetto tone.) 

So ! — see ? 
Lucy {convulsed). Yes, I see— and hear, too. But 

I'm afraid — really, I'm afraid I couldn't do it 

like that. 
Mrs. R. Well, I should hope not. You'd better go 

and find out about those apples, Oliver. I'm 

afraid Ivy '11 have them all eaten up. 
Oliver. Yes, I reckon I had. But I'll be back when 

y' begin y'r wobblin'. Miss Garrett. Ho-o— oh— 

o-o-oh ! 

{Putting hand on chest and flinging out a high note, 
as he exits r.) 

Mrs. R. He is irrepressible, that boy. Between him 
and Ivy — well, I guess you can imagine. 

{Enter Jessie, l., with partly knitted sock.) 

Jessie. What's all this I hear? Mercy, i thought a 

wild Injun was let loose. 
Mrs. R. Why, it was Oliver Moon, trying to sing. 
Lucy. Or trying to show me how to do it. Is that 

your knitting, Jessie ? 
Jessie. Well, it's my — whatever-y'-call-it. I don't 

know as I'd call it "knitting." I pity the poor 

soldier that ever tries to wear this pair of socks. 

If he hasn't corns already, I guess he soon will 

have. I hope it's one of those old Germans. 
Mrs. R. Oh, Jessie, I don't believe it's so bad as all 

that. 
Lucy. No, of course it isn't. {Examining Jessie's 

work.) Why, you're getting along all right. Just 

keep at it. 
Jessie. Oh, I'll keep at it all right. Got to do my 

share toward winning the war, and if these socks 

exterminate one German, that'll be so much. 
77 



FOE THE OLD FLAG 



(They all sit, knitting — Mrs. R. at l. of table, as be- 
fore; Lucy r. of table and Jessie r. c. Enter 
Tom, r.) 

Tom. Well, well, but you're an industrious lot. Guess 
I ought to have some knitting, too, or something 
like that. 

Lucy. Well, why not? It wouldn't hurt a man to 
knit, any more than a woman to do some of the 
things she does. 

Jessie. Why, of course not. I could drive an ox- 
team or hoe a potato field ten times better'n I 
can knit these socks. Til bet. 

Mrs. R. The idea! I guess you couldn't. I don't 
approve of the way women are taking up the 
men's work these days. It seems all wrong to me. 

Jessie. Yes, you're just an old-fashioned woman, 
Mother, dear. Not up to the times. 

Lucy. Then I hope she never is. 

Tom. Me, too. I wouldn't have Mother change one 
iota for the world. Eh, Mother-o'-mine ? 

(He has gone around back of her, leans over her chair, 
with arms about her.) 

Mrs. R. {looking up at him, tenderly). Well, so long 
as you are suited, Tom. — you and a few others — I 
guess I ought to be happy. But you do spoil 
me so. 

Tom. Pshaw ! It couldn't be done. 

(Jessie and Lucy smile affectionately at Mrs. R., who 
now rises.) 

Mrs. R. Well, I'm not so sure about that. {Cross- 
ing to R.) I'm going in the kitchen now. I 
want to see what Ivy and Oliver are up to. Be- 
sides, I have a few things to see to. 

Lucy. Now, Mrs. Randall, don't go and fuss. 

Mrs. R. No, of course I won't. Just some cakes and 
cider and a few nuts and apples, that's all. 

{Exit, R. Jessie rises, goes to r.) 
78 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Jessie. Guess Til go and see if I can help. You 
two excuse me ? {Smiling knowingly. ) 

Lucy. Why, yes— of course 

Tom. Oh, sure— take your time 

(These two sentences are spoken together. Jessie 
smiles and exits r. Lucy is still seated R. of table, 
Tqm is standing other side of table.) 

Lucy. I— haven't seen much of you lately, Tom. 

Where have you been keepuig yourself ? 
Tom Oh— around. Here at home, most of the 

time. It seems the best place for me, somehow. 
Lucy. I can't say that I agree with you. 
Tom. You— don't? . i . . i 

Lucy. No. You are simply helpmg people to take 
you at their own estimate. Excuse me, Tom, i 
don't mean to hurt your feelings. You know 
that. But I do think you make a mistake. 
Tom. Maybe I do. It's mighty hard, though. Why, 
I had even begun to think you were going back 
on me, Lucy. ^ , ^ , . . 

Lucy You know better than that. It's been hard for 
me too. You don't know all I have to contend 
with But never mind that. Sit down, Tom. 1 
want to talk to you. {He sits; she leans on table, 
looking across at him earnestly.) I've been wait- 
ing for this opportunity. 
Tom. To give me a talking to? , 

Lucy Well yes— if you want to put it that way. 
Anyhow' to say a few things that have been on 
my mind for a long time. First: do you mean 
to keep it up? 
Tom. What?— keep what— up? . 

Lucy. You know— bearing all the shame and misery, 
that you have to bear, for something somebody 
else did. Thaf s what you're doing. 
Tom I believe you have said that before, or hinted 
as much. You haven't much to go on, though, 
have you? ^ , .. . ... 

Lucy {ignoring what he says). And you think its 

79 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



your duty? Is it for Phil, or for your mother — 
chiefly ? {He rises, amazed. ) 

Tom. Lucy ! What do you mean ? What are you — 
driving at ? 

Lucy {quietly). Driving square up to the right 
hitching-post, Tom Randall, and you know it. 
Oh, I've understood the whole thing right along — 
ever since last summer. I suspected it before 
Phil went away. I was sure of it soon after. It's 
noble of you, Tom. You're a real hero — a true 
patriot — and I'd like to give you the Cross of 
Honor and all the other decorations and things. 
But I think it's rather too much. Phil is away 
over there now, where it doesn't matter so much 
to him. You are here, with it to bear. Don't you 
think, if you can prove your innocence — even if 
you have to implicate him — it's your privilege 
now — your duty to yourself 

Tom. No— I can't 

Lucy. And to — ^me! — Tom? 

Tom. Oh, Lucy, don't put it that way. I — I can bear 
it for myself, but don't make it harder for me. 
I promised — faithfully, on my word of honor — 
and I pride myself I still have a " word of honor " 
that stands for something. I couldn't go back 
on it. No — not even for you, Lucy — I couldn't! 

Lucy. I see. And I suppose I shouldn't ask it of 
you. But I can do my share — bear my share — 
too. I can stand by you and with you, and show 
everybody that I believe in you, no matter what 
anybody else says or thinks. That's what I want 
to do, Tom. 

(They are standing c. ToM looks at her, almost un- 
comprehendingly, almost overcome as her meaning 
dawns upon him.) 

Tom. Would you do it, Lucy? Would you become — 
my wife — now — as things are — and still let me 
keep my promise ? Could you do that .'' 

Lucy. Yes, Tom, yes. Gladly. I want to do it 

80 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



Tom. But your father — he 

Lucy. I don't care. Not for him nor the whole world. 
It's you, Tom — you who need me and whom I 
want. Isn't that enough ? 

Tom {wonderingly — looking at her with great tender- 
ness). Enough? It's everything — it's wonder- 
ful! You're the most wonderful, the bravest, 
truest girl ip all the world. (He takes her in his 
arms; she nestles against him — there is a pause, 
then suddenly he puts her from him with determi- 
nation.) But it can't be — it mustn't. It wouldn't 
be right. No — no ! 

Lucy. Tom! It must, it shall! In spite of every- 
thing. {Puts hand on his arm.) 

Tom {drawing away from her, sadly, but firmly). No. 
I would be a coward. I couldn't let you give up 
so much for me. Some time — it may come right — 
then — but not yet — not now 

{He turns up l. c. ; she goes to him, pleadingly.) 

Lucy. Tom ! 

Tom. No — don't, Lucy — ^please! Don't make it 
harder for me. I must bear it — alone. 

{He exits l. She stands l. c, by table, sadly, almost 
breaking down. There is a pause, then a stamp- 
ing of feet outside and knocking on door c. Lucy 
looks that zvay, but does not go to door; takes up 
her knitting, goes l. Enter Mrs. R., hurriedly, r.) 

Mrs. R. Oh, you here alone, Lucy? {Going up to 
door c.) I guess that's Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins. I 
asked them to come over a little while, too. 

Lucy. Did you ? Seems it's a regular party. 

Mrs. R. Oh, no; but seeing they are just back from 
their wedding trip, and all, you know 

{The knocking on door is repeated. Lucy crosses, 

exits r., just as Mrs. R. opens door, admitting 

Hezekiah and Sophia. They are well bundled 

up, with snow on heads and shoidders. They come 

8i 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 

in hurriedly, shaking themselves, etc. Mrs. R, 
glances out, then quickly closes door.) 

Sophia. Urr ! We're almost froze. 

Mrs. R. My, it's a regular storm, isn't it? 

Sophia. Storm ? I should say so. It's blowing and 
drifting something terrible. 

Hezekiah. Twin sister to a blizzard, I call it. S* 
stiff I d' know's I'll ever git thawed out. 

Sophia. Well, you would come. I told him it 
wa'n't fit, Mis' Randall, but he's so afraid he'll 
miss something. I guess he'd insisted on comin' 
'f it 'd been a blizzard 'n' a cyclone all in one. 
That's about what 'tis, too. 

Hezekiah. Listen t' that. Me 'nsisted! Gosh, can 
y' beat that? You couldn't 'a' kep' her t' home 
Avith a chain 'n' padlock. 

Mrs. R. Well, I'm real glad you got here, anyway. 
Come in the front room. I guess you'll find it 
real warm in there. Ivy lit the fire in the wood- 
stove some time ago. 

Sophia. Oh, it's plenty warm enough here. Mis' 
Randall. Ain't it, Hezekiah ? 

Hezekiah. Sure — plenty — for me. 

(They have removed things, which Mrs. R. takes. 
Sophia retains immense cretonne knitting-bag, 
which she has had under shazvl or cloak.) 

Mrs. R. Well, all right then, sit right down here and 
make yourselves as comfortable as you can for 
the present. I'll take these things out by the 
kitchen stove, where they'll get nice and dry. 

(Exit at R., with things. Sophia sits r. of table with 
knitting; Hezekiah is c.) 

Sophia. Be y' f eelin' all right, Hezekiah ? Sure you 

didn't git a chill? 
Hezekiah. Chill? No. Be'n out in worse weather 

'n this plenty o' times. It's you I'm worried about, 

dearie. 

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(Puis arm about her, as if about to kiss her; she draws 
away, repulsing him.) 

Sophia. Hezekiah Wilkins, b'have y'rself ! What if 
some of 'em 'd come in and see y' ? 

Hezekiah. What'd I care? Ain't we bride V 
groom ? Guess we got a right to love a Httle 

Sophia. Bride 'n' groom? Land, we be'n married 
over a month. 'Bout time you had a little sense, 
accordin' t' my way o' thinkin'. 'T your age, too ! 

Hezekiah. What's age got t' do with it? Guess 
after wait'n' all them years t' git y', y' ain't goin* 
t' keep me from showin' how much I love y', now 
't you're mine. 

Sophia {as he continues attempting to fondle her). 
Well, y' don't have to do it b'fore folks. {He is 
more persistent — she rises, pushing him back,) 
F'r the land's sake, leave me be! I never saw 
sech a man. 

{Enter Mrs. R. at r.) 

Hezekiah. 'Tain't right. Is it, Mis' Randall? 
Mrs. R. What isn't, Mr. Wilkins? 

Hezekiah. Why, f'r Sophi' t' 

Sophia. Don't you pay no attention t' him. Mis' 

Randall. He's too silly for anything — wantin' t' 

make love all the time, at his age. No matter 

where we are, either — always actin' like we was 

a young married couple. 
Hezekiah. Well, what'd I marry y' f r, 'f 'twa'n't t' 

show my devotion ? 
Sophia. Devotion fiddlesticks! {She is again 

seated, opens bag, takes out sock partly knitted — 

holds it out to Hezekiah.) Here's your knittin'. 

Take it and keep busy, f'r goodness' sake. 
Mrs. R. Oh, have you learned to knit too, Hezekiah ? 
Hezekiah. She made me. Makes me tired. Knit- 

t'n's f'r women. {Refuses to take work.) I 

don't want it. 
Sophia. Hezekiah Wilkins, you take that knittin*. 

Ain't you willin' t' do that much f'r y'r country? 

83 



FOE THE OLD FLAG " 



Hezekiaii. Me? Gosh a' fish-hooks, 'n' me a vete- 
ran what fit f'r the Union. 'S if I hadn't done 
more 'n knit a darned old pair o' socks ! 

Mrs. R. Well, I guess that's so, Hezekiah. It does 
seem as if you might be excused. Don't you 
think so, Sophia? 

Sophia. No, I don't. It won't hurt him a bit. I've 
dug p'tatoes V split kindlin'-wood lots o' times, 
'n' I guess that ain't woman's work, any more 
knittin's a man's. 

{Again offering work to Hezekiah, who now grabs 
it spitefully.) 

Hezekiah. Oh, well, then, give it here! (Looking 
at it.) Pretty lookin' kind o' thing that is, ain't 
it? Git more stitches in m' side th'n I put in the 
blamed old stockin'. I thought we come over 
here t' have a pleasant evenin'. Wanted t' tell 
'em about our wedd'n' trip. 

Sophia. Oh, I guess they've heard all they want to 
about that. Ain't y'. Mis' Randall? 

Mrs. R. It's nothing but what I could stand hearing 
over again, Sophia. It must have been quite a 
trip, to Philadelphia and all. They say that's a 
' wonderful city. 

Hezekiah. I should say 'tis. Talk about " slow," — 
wal, 'f Philadelphy's what they call slow, spare me 
fr'm where they're s'posed t' be rapid. We 
saw 

Sophia {interrupting him). That's where the Liberty 
Bell is, y' know. We saw it — crack 'n' all 

Hezekiah. 'Course we did. Didn't s'pose they was 
goin' t' hide the crack the days we was there, 
didy'? 

Sophia. And the very table they set at t' sign the 
Declaration o' Independence — and the house — the 
very window — where Betsy Ross set t' make the 
first American flag. 

Hezekiah. 'N' Benjamin Franklin's grave, *n' 

Sophia. Yes, 'n' their City Hall's got a tower higher'n 
a church steeple, with Billy Penn standin' on 
84 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



top of it. We went 'most to the top, 'n'—what d' 
think. Mis' Randall ? Hezekiah got s' dizzy, goin* 
up s* far in that elevator, *t they had f let us out 

on about the seventy-eighth floor 

Hezekiah. Huh! 'Twa'n't no sech thing— 'twaVt 

more'n the twenty-third 

Sophia. Wal, anyway, it was wonderful, and we 
certainly did have a fine time. Everybuddy seemed 
t' know we was bride 'n' groom, though, fr'm the 
way Hezekiah acted. I got so ashamed, I thought 
I'd sink. 

Mrs. R. I don't see what you cared— so long as you 
had a good time. 

Sophia. But I hate t' see a man act so silly. His 
third time, too. {Watches Hezekiah.) See 
here, if you can't knit any better'n that you might 
as well stop. The war'll be over before you get 
that one sock done. 

Hezekiah. Wal, I guess they'll be some one-footed 
ones left that'll be glad t' git it. {Rises.) You 
make me nervous. How can I knit, with you 
watchin' every minute? 

^^^TT^' .^^^y ^on't you go in the other room, 
Hezekiah? Tom's in there. You can tell him 
about your trip. 

Hezekiah {going l.). All right, guess I will. Mebbe 
It 11 cheer him up. 

Mrs. R. Yes, maybe it would. 

Sophia. Well, you go, 'cause I've got somethin' I 
want t' tell Mis' Randall, anywav. Mebbe we 
won't get another chance t' be alone this evenin'. 

Hezekiah. Huh ! 'Nother one of them *' messages," 
I spose. I'm jealous o' them spirits— how d' I 
know but what some of 'em's male ones ? Hey ? 

{Exit, R., chuckling.) 
Sophia. Don't you pay any attention t' him, Mis* 
Randall. He's always talkin' like that. Says I 
ought 't' give it all up, now 't I'm his. But I 
can t. Mis' Randall— I can't. It's them that won't 
give me up— Prairie Flower. 

85 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



Mrs. R. So you still hear from her, do you ? 

Sophia {mysteriously). Oh, yes — often. Not s* 
often 's I did, though. It has t' be something very 
important now, it seems. 'N' 'tis, this time. It's 
for you. Mis' Randall. It come t' me last night, 
as plain as day. 

Mrs. R. Dear me, I was in hopes there wouldn't be 
any more for me. It sort of makes me nervous. 

Sophia. Why, it ought t' lift you up. It does me. 
I feel the honor and the responsibility placed upon 
me. {Impressively.) Mis' Randall, it all came 
to me last night. Sort of symbolic-like, but plain 
as could be. I saw a battle-field, then — a 
wounded soldier, in a hospital, I think it was. 
He seemed to be trying to tell me something — 
something he wanted me to tell somebody. And 
I thought it was you. Then he got s' weak he 
couldn't say it — and — and then 

Mrs. R. {with an anxiety which she cannot conceal). 
What, Sophia? What else? Of course, I don't 
believe in it — but — I can't help being inter- 
ested 

Sophia. Wal, I wouldn't want t' alarm you, for any- 
thing ; but for a time it seemed as if it was the last 
word he ever spoke. 

Mrs. R. You don't mean he was — that he — died? 

Sophia. For a time I did. But it went further — I 
saw a young man in uniform set out on a long 
journey. It was as if he went on the water — came 
back to this country — as if he was coming — 
here 

Mrs. R. {rising, in unconcealed excitement). Oh, 
Sophia, he is coming home — my boy — my Phil! 
Was it Phil? Do you think he is coming? 

Sophia. Wal, it was all sort o' misty, as if it wa'n't 
intended I should know exactly. But that's what 
I saw. 

Mrs. R. I thought you said it was all " as plain as 
day." I guess it wasn't. Seems to me it was 
nothing but a dream, the kind I have myself a 
good deal. 

86 



FOB TEE OLD FLAG 

Sophia You can take it for what it's v/orih. I 
ain't sayin' what that is. But it was plain enough-- 
that is, that it was a message, and, t' my mind 
that it was intended for you, even if it was kind 
o' faint at the end. That's the way it is. Some- 
times I come out of 'em before I get it all. 
Mrs R. Yes, I guess you do. Well, I'm much 
obliged, anyway, seeing you thought you ought to 
tell me. But I can't say I put much faith in it. 
{Going L.) Won't you come in where your hus- 
band is, Mrs. Wilkins? , , mi k 
Sophia (rising). Yes, I s'pose I'd better, r hell be 
out here after me. Land, I don't see how I ever 
consented t' have him, after s' long. I cant 
hardly sense it yet, 't I'm a married woman— n 
t' nothin' but an old relic of the Civil War. ^ 
Mrs. R. Yes, it does seem kind of queer, I will admit. 
Most men would have lost hope long ago. But I 
guess he knew you intended to have him some 
time, all along. ,. . ^, -j , 
Sophia. Mis' Randall, how you talk ! The very idee ! 
Why, I never had no more intention of b'comin 
Mis' ' Hezekiah Wilkins 'n I have of— of— wal, 
of_wal, of goin' t' France in an air-ship. But I 
had t' take him t' get red of him. Now 't I'm 
his wife I can at least be the boss and keep him 
in his place. It's easier t' manage a husband 'n 
'tis a man what wants t' be. 
Mrs. R. Well, anyway, he's got you, at last. 
Sophia. I've got him, I guess you mean. 'N' now t 
I have, I declare I don't know what t' do with 
him. I s'pose I'll have t' make the best of it. 
Mrs. R. It's a wonder Prairie Flower didn't wai'n 
you, if it wasn't just the best thing for you to do 
Sophia. Mebbe she would' ve, 'f I'd listened. But I 
turned a deef ear, 'n' now I've got t' pay the 
penalty. 

(Hezekiah sticks head in door l.) 
Hezekiah. Say, when's my little lovey-dovey coming 
in with her little piggy-wiggy ? 
87 



FOR TSE OLD FLAG 

/_ 

Sophia^' In a minute. Go back in there! (Hez- 
EKIAH withdraws. ) Did you ever hear sech sick- 
ishness — at his age, too? It's Hke Hvin' on whipped 
cream and chocolate drops f'r a month till y'r dy- 
ing f'r pickles V chow-chow. {Going l.) But 
I s'pose I'll have to go in, *r he'll never give me a 
minute's peace. {As she goes out.) No, I don't 
see how I ever consented t' take him — I cer- 
tainly don't. 

{Exit, L. Mrs. R. stands a moment, looking after her, 
with an amused smile. Then enter Lucy and 
Jessie, r.) 

Jessie. Where are the bride and groom, Mother? 

Mrs. R. They went in the front room. Tom's in 
there, too. I guess you'd better go in, and maybe 
have a little music. I'm just dying to hear you 
sing, Lucy. 

Lucy. Mercy, if I can save your life so easily as that, 
let me do it. I'm only glad it doesn't have the 
opposite effect. Come, Jessie, you can play for 
me. 

Jessie. All right. I'll be right in. 

{Exit Lucy, l.) 

Mrs. R. Sophia Ash — I mean Mrs. Wilkins — has 
been giving me another " message," Jessie. She 
says a man in uniform is coming. Do you sup- 
pose 

Jessie. What I suppose is that she has you all upset, 
and I wish she'd leave you alone. It's too ridic- 
ulous. If I put stock in all my dreams and 
imaginings, like she does, I'd have enough ** mes- 
sages " and " visions " to keep us guessing for- 
evermore. {Going l.) Don't you pay a bit of 
attention to anything she says. Mother. Between 
" Prairie Flower " and that new husband of hers, 
I don't wonder she has her hands full. But if she 
doesn't leave you alone, I intend to give her a 
piece of my mind. 

88 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



(Exit, L.) 



Mrs. R. Jessie— be careful. I wouldn't have you 
hurt Sophia's feelings for anything. (She stands 
a moment, ruminating, then goes to door r. and 
calls.) Ivy — Oliver! 

(Enter Ivy, r.) 

Ivy. 'D you call me. Mis* Randall.? 

Mrs. R. Yes. I guess you and Oliver can go in the 

front room now. They're going to have some 

music. We won't have the refreshments yet a 

while. 
Ivy. All right. We got a whole pile o' nuts cracked. 

(Calls off R.) Oliver — Oliver, come on, now! 

(Enter Oliver, r.) 
Oliver. 'Dy' call me? 
Ivy. Sure. Come on. We're goin' in the front room 

t' have some music. 
Oliver. Pshaw ! Can't eat music. 
Mrs. R. Why, Oliver, I thought you were so anxious 

to hear Miss Garrett sing. 
Oliver. Am. But I could listen t' her 'n' eat too. 
Ivy (l.). All you think of 's eat'n'. Et as many nuts 

as y' cracked. 
Oliver. Shucks ! Didn't, neither. (He has gone l. 

Ivy gets behind him and pushes him to door l ) 

Oh, all right, I'm a-goin'. See how she bosses 

me, Mis' Randall ? Jest like a wife. 
Ivy. Oh, you ! 

(She gives him a slap and he runs off L. She follows. 
Mrs R. looks after them a moment, smiling. A 
small organ is heard being played off i.., then a 
sweet soprano or contralto voice, supposed to be 
that of Lucy Garrett, singing, " Keep the Home 
Fires Burning;' or some other appropriate sym- 
pathetic song; if convenie^it, with violin obligaio. 
A phonograph record may be used for this effect, 
which shoidd not he omitted. During song Mrs 
89 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



R. stands a moment in thought, then crosses to R., 
pauses there and listens, then exits R. The stage 
is vacant for a moment, as the tniisic coniinues. 
After a pause, sleigh-bells are heard off c, in 
distance, approaching. Finally they come to door 
outside and stop. There is a knocking on door c. 
After short pause it is repeated, more loudly. As 
there is no answer, the door is opened gently and 
Rodney Hunt looks in. He is in army uniform, 
with heavy overcoat, the collar of which is turned 
up, with hat or cap pidled down, so that mo- 
mentarily his identity may be concealed. He 
closes door, looks about; goes to l., stands listen- 
ing to music, then looks off l. Mrs. R. enters R., 
at first does not see him, starts up toward door, 
then sees Rodney, who has his back turned to her. 
At first she thinks it is Philip, gasps, almost over- 
come. Grasps chair for support. Calls feebly.) 

Mrs. R. Philip — my — boy! 

( Rodney turns, removes hat. She takes a step toward 
him, then falters, nearly falls; he runs and catches 
her in his arms.) 

Rodney. Mrs. Randall! You didn't know me — you 
thought 

Mrs. R. {partly recovering, clinging to him). Philip — 
my boy — you have come back ! Oh, my boy ! my 
boy! (Weeping, almost hysterically.) I knew 
you would come. I knew. I hoped — I prayed 

Rodney. I'm sorry, Mrs. Randall, but it's not your 
son. 

(She looks at him more closely, steadily; the truth 
dawns upon her. Starts away from him, clasping 
her hands.) 

Mrs. R. No — I see. Tell me, where is — he 



(Enter Jessie, l., at first not noticing others.) 
Jessie. Mother, aren't you coming 



90 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



(Pauses, as she sees Rodney, at first bewildered, then 
recognising him.) 

Rodney. Jes — Miss Randall! Don't you know me? 
Jessie. Why— yes— it's Mr. Hunt. 

(She shakes hands with him cordially.) 

Rodney. I don't wonder you hardly knew me— in 

these. 
Jessie. You're a soldier ! And you never told me- 
ns. 
Rodney. No. I wanted to make good first ; to try, at 

least, to be one that neither my country nor you 

would be ashamed of. 
Jessie. Oh, I'm so glad! Mother, Mr. Hunt is a 

soldier now. You see ? 
Mrs. R. Yes, dear. But— ask him about Philip. 
Jessie. What about him, Mr. Hunt? He has not 

come back with you? 
Rodney. No. (He gives her, aside, a look which she 

understands. She quivers, but partly conceals 

her emotion.) I have a message — a letter. 
Mrs. R. Then he was— well— when you left him? 
Rodney. Mrs. Randall, I— I am sorry— but— you will 

be brave? 
Mrs. R. Brave ? You ask me to be — brave ? Then — 

oh, tell me, tell me ! I can bear it. My boy — he 

is 

Rodney. He was a real hero, Mrs. Randall. He did 

valiant deeds and won a great name before 

(He pauses, as Mrs. R. totters, and is assisted hy 
Jessie to chair, l. c, where she sits, covering face 
with hands; Jessie with arm about her.) 

Jessie. Mother, we must be brave, too — as he was. 
Mrs. R. Yes, yes, I know. Don't be afraid. I will 
be brave. 

(Rodney, who has removed overcoat and hat, which 
he lays aside, now takes letter from pocket.) 

91 



FOR THE OLD FLAG 



Rodney {lo Jessie). Is your brother here? This 
letter and my message are for him to hear. 

Jessie. Yes. He is in there, with Lucy Garrett and 
the others. 

Rodney. Miss Garrett? It concerns her, too. Will 
you call them? 

Jessie. Yes. 

{Exit, L. The music has ceased. Mrs. R. siill sits hy 
table; Rodney stands c, holding envelope in 
hand. ) 

Mrs. R. It is a letter from Philip? He wrote it? 

Rodney. No. I wrote it, at his dictation. It was 
just at the last, when he was unable to write. I 
wish I could tell you, Mrs. Randall, what a brave, 
noble boy he was — a real hero. It was through 
him that several of his comrades escaped death. 

Mrs. R. {rising). And he gave — his own life — to 
save them ? 

Rodney. Yes. 

Mrs. R. My boy, my brave, noble boy — a hero ! He 
died for his country and to save others. Yes, I 
can be brave now — I can bear it. 

{Enter Jessie, Lucy and Tom, l. Lucy and ToM 
show great surprise as they recognize Rodney. 
Both shake hands cordially with him.) 

Tom. Well, this is a surprise ! Where did you come 
from? 

Rodney. France. Straight as I could get here. 

Lucy. And in uniform? Well, isn't that grand? 
Look, Jessie ! look at your soldier boy. 

Jessie {a hit confused). Oh, I noticed. I hope you 
don't think those glory-togs could escape my at- 
tention. 

(Rodney is r., Tom, r. c, Lucy, c, Jessie and Mrs. 
R., L. c. and l.) 

Tom. But tell me What about Phil ? He didn't 

come with you? 

92 



FOB THE OLD FLAG 



Rodney. No. You see, I was gassed the first week 
I was in the trenches. They gave me a leave of 
absence. Not fit yet, but hope to go back before 
long. As for Phil — that's where the hard part of 
it comes in, Tom. I have told your mother. She 
knows — and your sister. 

Tom. And I think I know, now. The worst. 
Mother ! 

(Tom crosses to Mrs. R. ; comforts her. They are 
grouped about; Rodney takes out letter, opens it.) 

Rodney. This letter will tell you better than I can. 
Will you read it, Miss Garrett? 

Lucy {taking letter). I? — aloud? 

Rodney. Yes, please. It is in my handwriting, writ- 
ing at Pnil's dictation, just at the last. He wanted 
you all to hear it, and everybody to know what it 
contains. 

Lucy. Then, of course 

{She glances over letter, looks hurriedly down page, 
in much excitement ; gives an exclamation of sur- 
prise, trembling.) 

Jessie. But you were to read it aloud, Lucy. We 
are waiting. 

Lucy. Oh — yes! {Reads.) "It is nearly over. I 
have come to the end, and I can't go without 
making a confession. I want to right a great 
wrong and do what I can to atone. I hope it isn't 
too late. Mother, I beg of you, with my last 
breath, to forgive me. You will, I know, even if 
Tom can't. It's too much to expect him to. I 
have done him too great a wrong. I was in the 
bank that night. I had just left when Tom came. 
I took the money, hid part of it in Tom's room, 
and afterward made it look as if he was the one 
who stole it. I was the thief, and he paid the 
penalty. Let him be cleared now, have it all 
straightened out, so that he and Lucy — I don't 
suppose they can forgive me, but I hope they will 

93 



FOR TEE OLD FLAG 



believe that I have tried, over here, to do what I 
could to make up, just a little, for the wrong I 
did over there." 

(Lucy reads this brokenly, with pauses, weeping.' 
Mrs. R. and Jessie also are weeping, the others 
likewise deeply affected. As Lucy finishes, there 
is silence and a pause. Mrs. R. rises and Jessie, 
her arms about her, silently leads her off l. 
Jessie looks hack, with a winning smile, at Rod- 
ney, holding out one hand to him. He follows 
and also exits l. Tom and Lucy stand c. She 
holds out the letter to him; he takes her hand, 
draws her toward him.) 

Tom. Lucy, do you know what it means? I am 

vindicated — I can hold up my head again — do you 

know? 
Lucy. Yes, Tom, I know. But I knew all the time. 

I believed in you. 
Tom. That's the wonderful part of it. Even more 

wonderful than this. But, just think, now I can 

go. I can wear a uniform — go to France — take 

his place — and fight for the Flag. 
Lucy. Yes, Tom, and I can wait for you — till you 

come back. 

(They go slowly toward l., his arm about her. The 
large flag still hangs on wall, stands there, or is 
on table. They take it up and hold it between 
them. The organ may be heard playing softly 
off L., then voices, subdued, singing " America " 
as the curtain falls. ) 



CURTAIN 



94 



Uniisualiy Good Entertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

GRADUATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOL. 

An Entertainment in Two Acts, by Ward Macauley. For six 
males and four females, with several minor parts. ^ Time of 
playing, two hours. Modern costumes. Simple interior scenes; 
may be presented in a hall without scenery. The unusual com- 
bination of a real "entertainment," including music, recitatioHS^ 
etc., with an interesting love story. The graduation exercises 
include short speeches, recitations, songs, funny interruptions, 
and a comical speech by a country school trustee. Price, 15 
cents. 

EXAMINATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOL. 

An Entertainment in One Act, by Ward Macauley. Eight male 
and six female characters, with minor parts. Plays one hour. 
Scene, an easy interior, or may be given without scenery. Cos- 
tumes, modern. Miss Marks, the teacher, refuses to marry a 
trustee, who threatens to discharge her. The examination in- 
cludes recitations and songs, and brings out many funny answers 
to questions. At the close Robert Coleman, an old lover, claims 
the teacher. Very easy and very effective. Price, 15 cents. 

BACK TO THE COUNTRY STORE. A Rural Enter- 
tainment in Three Acts, by Ward Macauley. For four male 
and five female characters, with some supers. Time, two hours. 
Two scenes, both easy interiors. Can be played effectively with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. All the principal parts are 
sure hits. Quigley Higginbotham, known as "Quig," a clerk in 
a country store, aspires to be a great author or singer and 
decides to try his fortunes in New York. The last scene is in 
Quig's home. He returns a failure but is offered a partnership 
in the country store. He pops the question in the midst of a 
surprise party given in his honor. Easy to do and very funny. 
Price, 15 cents. 

THE DISTRICT CONVENTION. A Farcical Sketch 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For eleven males and ©ne 
female, or twelve males. Any number of other parts or super- 
numeraries may be added. Plays forty-five minutes. No special 
^cenery is required, and the costumes and properties are all 
easy. The play shows an uproarious political nominating con- 
vention. The climax comes when a woman's rights cham- 
pion, captures the convention. There is a great chance to bur- 
lesque modern politics and to work in local gags. Every 
part will make a hit. Price, 15 cents. 

SI SLOCUM'S COUNTRY STORE. An Entertainment 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eleven male and five female 
characters with supernumeraries. Several parts may be doubled. 
Plays one hour. Interior scene, or may be played without set 
scenery. Costumes, modem. The rehearsal for an entertain- 
ment in the villa^iO church gives plenty of opportunity for 
specialty work. A very jolly entertainment of the sort adapted 
to almost any place or occasion. Price, 15 cents. 

THE PENN PUBUSHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



Unusually Good Entertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

A SURPRISE FABTY AT ERINKLEY'S. An En- 
tertainment in One Scene, by Ward Macaulky. Seven male and 
seven female characters. Interior scene, or may be given with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. Time, one hour. By the 
author of the popular successes, "Graduation Day at Wood Hill, 
School," "Back to the Country Store," etc. The villagers have* 
planned a birthday surprise parly for Mary Brinklcy, recently 
graduated from college. They all join in jolly games, songs, 
conundrums, etc., and Mary becomes engaged, which surprises 
the surprisers. The entertainment is a sure success. Price, 15 cents» 

JONBS VS. JIKKS. A Mock Trial in One Act, by 
Edwakd Mumford. Fifteen male and six female characters, with 
supernumeraries if desired. May be played all male. Many of the 
parts (members of the jury, etc.) are small. Scene, a simple 
interior ; may be played without scenery. Costumes, modern. 
Time of playing, one hour. This mock trial has many novel 
features, unusual characters and quick action. Nearly every 
character has a funny entrance and laughable lines. Theffe are 
many rich parts, and fast fun throughout. Price, 15 cents. 

TWE SIGHT-SEBINa CAK. A Comedy Sketch in One 
Act, by Ernest M. Gould. For seven males, two females, or 
may be all male. Parts may be doubled, v>'ith quick changes, so 
that four persons may play the sketch. Time, forty-five minutes. 
Simple street scene. Costumes, modern. The superintendent 
of a sight-seeing automobile engages tv/o men to run the 
machine. A Jew, a farmer, a fat lady and other humorous 
characters give them all kinds of trouble. This is a regular gat- 
ling-gun stream of rollicking repartee. Price, 15 cents. 

THE CASE OF SMTTHE WB, SMITH. An Original 
Meek Trial in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eighteen males 
and two females, or may be all male. Plays about one hour. 
Scene, a county courtroom ; requires no scenery ; may be played 
in an ordinary hall. Costumes, modern. This entertainment is 
nearly perfect of its kind, and a sure success. It can be easily 
produced in any place or on any occasion, and provides almo»k 
any number of good parts. Price, 15 cents. 

THE OLD MAIDS* ASfiOCXATIOIf. A Farcical Enter-^ 
iainment in One Act, by Louise Latham Wilson. For thirteea 
females and one male. The male part may be played by a 
female, and the number of characters increased to twenty or 
more. Time, forty minutes. The play requires neither acenery 
nor properties, and very little in the way of costumes. Can 
easily be prepared in one or two rehearsals. Price, 25 cents. 

BARGAIN DAT AT BLOOMSTEIIff'S. A Farcical 
Entertainment in One Act, by Edward Mumforb. For five males 
and ten females, with supers. Interior scene. Costumes, med- 
ern. Time, thirty minutes. The characters and the situations 
■which arise from their endeavors to buy and sell make rapid-fire 
fun from start to finish. Price, 15 cents. 

THE PENM PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



Successful ii. 

In Selecting Your Next Play Do . 

YOUNG DOCTOR I»BVIN£. A Fa 

by M»s. E. J, H. Goodpbsllow, Oae a£ the 
plays for ^lis. For ome £eaftale ehaFacters. 
plagring, thirty minutes. Seeaeiry, ordiHary interior, 
ern cosfeumes. Girls in ft boardiag-SGhool, learning tht. 
young doctor is comiag to vaccinate all the pupils, eagerly con- 
sult each other a^s to the manner of fascinating the physician. 
When the doctor appears uptm the aceae the pupils discover that 
the physician is a female practitioner. Price, 15 cents. - 

SISTER MASONS. A Burle«(iue in One Act, by Frawk 

DuMOMT. For eleven females. Time, thirty minutes. Costumes, 
fantastic gowns, or dominoes. Scene, interior. A grand expose 
of Masonry. Some women profess to learn the secrets of a 
Masonip lodge by hearing their husbands talk in their sleep, 
and they institute a similar organization. Price, 15 cents. 

A COMMANDING POSITION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment, by Amelia Sanpord. For seven female char- 
acters and ten or more other ladies and children. Time, one 
hour. Costumes, modern. Scenes, easy interiors and one street 
scene. Marian Young gets tired living with her aunt. Miss 
Skinflint. She decides to "attain a commanding position." 
Marian tries hoapttal nursing, college settlement work and 
school teaching, but decides to go back to housework. Price, 15 
cents. 

HOW A WOMAN KEEPS A SECRET. A Comedy 

in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For ten female charaote«s. 
Time» half an hour. Scene, an easy interior. Costumes, modern. 
Mabel Sweetly has just become engaged to Harold, but it's "ihs 
deepest kind of a secret." Before announcing it they must win 
the approval of Harold's uncle, now in Europe, or lose a possible 
ten thousand a year. At a tea Mabel meets her dearest friend. 
Maude sees Mabel has a secret, she coaxes and Mabel tells hec 
But Maude lets out the secret in a fcw^ minutes to another 
friend and so the secret travels. Price, IS cents. 

THE OXFORD AJTAIR. A Comedy in Three Acts. 
by Josephine H. Cobb and Jennie E. Paine. For eight female 
characters. Plays one hour and three-quarters. Scenes, inter- 
iors at a seaside hotel. Costumes, modern. The action of the 
play ts located at a summer resort. Alice Graham, in order to 
chaperon herself, poses as a widow, and Miss Oxford first claims 
her as a sister-in-law, then denounces her. The onerous duties 
of Miss Oxford, who attempts to serve as chaperon to Miss 
Howe and Miss Ashton in the face of many obstacles, furnish 
an evening of rare enjoyment. Price 15 cents. 

THE PENN PUBUSHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 



■I 



018 378 294 



.s,xicy go ha 

clear and force 
- poise at all times — in pnvaie gatnenngs, m public 
osion, in society, in business. 

It is an invaluable asset to any man or woman. It can, often 
be turned into money, but it is always a real joy. 

In learning to express thought, we learn to command 
thought itself, and thought is power. You can have this 
power if you will. 

iWhoever has the power of clear expression is always sure 
of himself. 

Itie power of expression leads to: 

The ability /to think "on your feet** 

Successful public speaking 

Effective recitals 

The mastery over other minds 

Social prominence 

Business success 

Efficiency in any undertaking 

Are these things worth while? 

They are all successfully taught at The National School of 
Elocution and Oratory, which duririg many years has de- 
veloped this power in hundreds of men and women. 

A catalogue giving full information as to how any of these 
accomplishments may be attained will be sent free on request. 

THE NATIONAL SCHOOL OF 
ELOCUTION AND ORATORY 

Pterkway Building Philadel^Aia 



